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ALEXANDER BROME.

THE RESOLVE.

Tell me not of a face that's fair,

Nor lip and cheek that's red, Nor of the tresses of her hair,

Nor curls in order laid ;
Nor of a rare seraphic voice,

That like an angel sings;
Though, if I were to take my choice,

I would have all these things.
But if that thou wilt have me love,

And it must be a she?
The only argument can move

Is, that she will love me.

The glories of your ladies be

But metaphors of things, And but resemble what we see

Each common object brings. Roses out-red their lips and cheeks,

Lilies their whiteness stain ; What fool is he that shadows seeks, And may the substance gain!

Then if thou’lt have me love a lass,

Let it be one that's kind, Else I'm a servant to the glass,

That's with Canary lin’d.

THE COUNSEL.

War's my friend so melancholy?

Pr’ythee why so sad, why so sad? Beauty's vain, and love's a folly,

Wealth and women make men mad. To him that has a heart that's jolly, Nothing's grievous, nothing's sad.

Come, cheer up, my lad.

Does thy mistress seem to fly thee?

Pr’ythee don't repine, don't repine :
If at first she does deny thee

Of her love, deny her thine ;
She shows her coyness but to try thee,
And will triumph if thou pine,

Drown thy thoughts in wine.

Try again, and don't give over,

Ply her, she's thine own, she's thine own:
Cowardice undoes a lover,

They are tyrants if you moan;
If nor thyself, nor love, can move her,
But she'll slight thee, and be gone :

Let her then alone.

If thy courtship can't invite her,

Nor to condescend, nor to bend,

Thy only wisdom is to slight her,

And her beauty discommend. Such a niceness will requite her: Yet, if thy love will not end,

Love thyself and friend.

LOVE'S ANARCHY.

Love, I must tell thee, I'll no longer be
A victim to thy beardless deity:
Nor shall this heart of mine,

Now 'tis return’d,
Be offer'd at thy shrine,

Or at thine altar burn'd. Love, like religion, 's made an airy name, To awe those fools whom want of wit makes tame.

There's no such thing as quiver, shafts, or bow,
Nor does love wound, but men imagine so.
Or if it does perplex

And grieve the mind,
'Tis the poor masculine sex:

Women no sorrows find. 'Tis not our persons, nor our parts, can move 'em, Nor is’t men's worth, but wealth, makes ladies love

'em.

Reason, henceforth, not love, shall be my guide,
My fellow-creatures shan't be deified;
I'll now a rebel be,

And so pull down
That distaff-monarchy,

And females' fancy'd crown.

In these unbridled times who would not strive To free his neck from all prerogative?

ON CLARET.

Within this bottle's to be seen
A scarlet liquor, that has been

Born of the royal vine :
We but nick-name it, when we call
It gods' drink, who drink none at all,

No higher name than wine.

'Tis ladies' liquor: here one might
Feast both his eye and appetite

With beauty and with taste,
Cherries and roses, which you seek
Upon your mistress' lip and cheek,

Are here together plac'd.

Physicians may prescribe their whey,
To purge our reins and brains away,

And clarify the blood;
That cures one sickness with another,
This routs by wholesale altogether,

And drowns them in a flood.

This poets makes, else how could I
Thus ramble into poet

Nay, and write sonnets too;
If there's such pow'r in junior wines,
To make one venture upon lines,

What could Canary do:

Then squeeze

the vessel's bowels out,
And deal it faithfully about,

Crown each hand with a brimmer;
Since we're to pass through this red sea,
Our noses shall our pilots be,

And every soul a swimmer.

LOVE'S WITHOUT REASON.

of one,

'Tis not my lady's face that makes me love her,

Though beauty there doth rest,
Enough t’inflame the breast

that never did discover
The glories of a face before ;

But I, that have seen thousands more, See nought in hers but what in others are, Only because I think she's fair, she's fair.

"Tis not her virtues, nor those vast perfections,

That crowd together in her,

Engage my soul to win her, For those are only brief collections

Of what's in man in folio writ;

Which, by their imitative wit, Women, like apes and children, strive to do; But we that have the substance slight the show,

"Tis not her birth, her friends, nor yet her treasure,

My freeborn soul can hold;

For chains are chains, though gold:
Nor do I court her for my pleasure,

Nor for that old morality
Do I love her, 'cause she loves me :

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