A Loose Saraband.

A poem by Richard Lovelace

Nay, prethee, dear, draw nigher,
Yet closer, nigher yet;
Here is a double fire,
A dry one and a wet.
True lasting heavenly fuel
Puts out the vestal jewel,
When once we twining marry
Mad love with wild canary.

Off with that crowned Venice,[69.1]
'Till all the house doth flame,
Wee'l quench it straight in Rhenish,
Or what we must not name.
Milk lightning still asswageth;
So when our fury rageth,
As th' only means to cross it,
Wee'l drown it in love's posset.

Love never was well-willer
Unto my nag or mee,
Ne'r watter'd us ith' cellar,
But the cheap buttery.
At th' head of his own barrells,
Where broach'd are all his quarrels,
Should a true noble master
Still make his guest his taster.

See, all the world how't staggers,
More ugly drunk then we,
As if far gone in daggers
And blood it seem'd to be.
We drink our glass of roses,
Which nought but sweets discloses:
Then in our loyal chamber
Refresh us with love's amber.

Now tell me, thou fair cripple,
That dumb canst scarcely see
Th' almightinesse of tipple,
And th' ods 'twixt thee and thee,
What of Elizium's missing,
Still drinking and still kissing;
Adoring plump October;
Lord! what is man, and[69.2] sober?

Now, is there such a trifle
As honour, the fools gyant,
What is there left to rifle,
When wine makes all parts plyant?
Let others glory follow,
In their false riches wallow,
And with their grief be merry:
Leave me but love and sherry.

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