To a LADY

How perfect, Chloris, and how free Would these enjoyments prove, But you with formal jealousy Are still tormenting love!

Let us (since wit instructs us how) Raise pleasure to the top: If rival bottle you'll allow, I'll suffer rival fop.

There's not a brisk insipid spark That flutters in the town, But with your wanton eyes you mark Him out to be your own.

You never think it worth your care, How empty nor how dull The heads of your admirers are, So that their backs be full.

All this you freely may confess, Yet we'll not disagree; For did you love your pleasures less, You were not fit for me.

Whilst I, my passion to pursue, Am whole nights taking in The lusty juice of grapes, take you The juice of lusty men!

Upbraid me not that I design Tricks to delude your charms, When running after mirth and wine I leave your longing arms.

For wine (whose power alone can raise Our thoughts so far above) Affords ideas fit to praise What we think fit to love.