Come Drawer fill each man A peck of Canary This Brimmer shall bid All our senses good-night. When old _Aristotle_ Was frolick and merry, By the juice of the Grape, He turn’d Stagarite. _Copernicus_ once In a drunken fit found, By the coruse [course] of his brains, That the world turn’d round. Since we, &c. Tis Sack makes our faces Like Comets to shine, And gives beauty beyond The Complexion mask, _Diogenes_ fell so In love with this Wine, That when ’twas all out, He dwelt in the Cask. He liv’d by the s[c]ent Of his Wainscoated Room; And dying desir’d The Tub for his Tombe. Since we, &c. _Of DESIRE._ Fire, Fire! O how I burn in my desire. For all the teares that I can strain Out of my empty love-sick brain, Cannot asswage my scorching pain. Come Humber, Trent, and silver Thames, The dread Ocean haste with all thy streames, And if thou can’st not quench my fire, Then drown both me and my Desire. Fire, Fire! Oh there’s no hell to my desire. See how the Rivers backward lye, The Ocean doth his tide deny, For fear my flames should drink them drye. Come heav’nly showers, come pouring down, You all that once the world did drown. You then sav’d some, and now save all, Which else would burn, and with me fall. _Upon kinde and true Love._ ’Tis not how witty, nor how free, Nor yet how beautifull she be, But how much kinde and true to me. Freedome and Wit none can confine, And Beauty like the Sun doth shine, But kinde and true are onely mine. Let others with attention sit, To listen, and admire her wit, That is a rock where Ile not split. Let others dote upon her eyes, And burn their hearts for sacrifice, Beauty’s a calm where danger lyes. But Kinde and True have been long try’d, And harbour where we may confide, [? An] And safely there at anchor ride. From change of winds there we are free, And need not fear Storme’s tyrannie, Nor Pirat, though a Prince he be. _Upon his Constant Mistresse._ She’s not the fairest of her name, But yet she conquers more than all the race, For she hath other motives to inflame, Besides a lovely face. There’s Wit and Constancy And Charms, that strike the soule more than the Eye. ’Tis no easie lover knowes how to discover Such Divinity. And yet she is an easie book, Written in plain language for the meaner wit, A stately garb, and [yet] a gracious look, With all things justly fit. But age will undermine This glorious outside, that appeares so fine, When the common Lover Shrinks and gives her over, Then she’s onely mine.