The Lovers mad fits and fancies.
To a Delightful New Tune.
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I Dote, I Dote; but am a Sot to show it,
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I was a very fool to let her know it;
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For now she doth so cunning grow,
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She proves a Friend worse than a Foe;
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She'l neither hold me fast, not let me go,
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For she tells me I cannot forsake her;
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The straight I endeavour to leave her;
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But to make me to stay,
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She throws a kiss in my way,
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O then I could tarry for ever.
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Then I retire, salute and sit down by her,
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Then do I fry in frost, and freeze in fire;
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'Tis Nectar from her Lips I sup,
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Although I cannot drink all up:
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Yet I am Fort with kissing of the Cup,
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For her lips are two brimmers of Claret,
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When first I began to miscarry;
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Her Breasts of delight;
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Are two Bottles of white;
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And her eyes are two cups of Canary.
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Drunk as I live, dead drunk without reprive,
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And all my secrets driven through a Sive,
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Upon my neck her Arms she layeth,
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Then all is Gospel that she saith,
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Which I lay hold on with my fudled faith,
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For I find a fond Lover a drunkard,
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And dangerous when once he flies out;
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With lips, and with sips,
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Black eyes, and white thighs,
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Blind Cupid sure tippled his eyes out.
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She bids me rise, tells me I must be wise,
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And be like her, for she's not in love she crys;
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Then do I fume, and fret. and throw,
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Shall I be fettered to my Foe?
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Then I begin to run, but cannot go:
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I prethee Sweet use me more kindly,
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'Tis better to hold me fast,
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if you once dis-ingage,
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Your Bird from his Cage;
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Believe me he'l leave you at last.
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L Ike a sot I sit, that fil'd the town with wit,
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But now I confess I have most need of it,
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I have been Drunk with Duck and Dear,
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About a quarter of a year,
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Beyond the cure of sleeping, or small Beer;
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For I think I can number the months too,
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July, August, September, October:
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thus goes my account,
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but a mischief light on't,
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For I'm sure I shall go when I am sober.
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My legs are lam'd, my courage is quite tam'd,
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My heart and my body is inflam'd:
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Now by experience I can prove,
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And swear by all the Gods above:
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'Tis better to be drunk with wine then love;
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For good sack makes us merry and witty,
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Our fore-heads with Jewels adorning;
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and although we do grope,
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yet there is some hope
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That a man may be sober next morning.
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Now with command she throws me from her hand
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she bids me go and knows I cannot stand
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I measure all the ground by steps,
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Was ever a Sot so drunk with Sips,
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Or ever man so overcome with Lips:
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I pray Madam Fickle be faithful,
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And leave off your damnable dodging:
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either love me, or leave me,
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and do not deceive me,
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But let me home to my lodging.
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I have too much, and yet my folly is such,
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I cannot leave, but must have tother touch:
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Here's a health to the King----- how now,
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I'm drunk, and shall speak reason I vow,
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But Lovers and fools, may speak any thing you know,
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I fear I have tyred your patience;
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But I'm sure 'tis I have the wrong on't:
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my wit is bereft me,
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and all that is left me
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Is but: just enough to make a Song on't:
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my Lady and I,
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shall never comply,
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And that is the short and the long on't.
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FINIS.
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