T. R. Smith, comp. Poetica Erotica: Rare and Curious Amatory Verse. 1921–22.
A Song: “Pox take you Mistris I’ll be gone”
Anonymous(From Merry Drollery, 1691) POX take you Mistris I’ll be gone, | |
| I have friends to wait upon; | |
| Think you I’ll my self confine, | |
| To your humours (Lady mine:) | |
| No, your louring seems to say: | 5 |
| ’Tis a rainy drinking day, | |
| To the Tavern I’ll away. | |
| There have I a Mistris got, | |
| Cloistered in a Pottle pot: | |
| Brisk and sprightly as thine eye, | 10 |
| When thy richest glances fly, | |
| Plump AND bounding, lively, fair, | |
| Bucksome, soft, and debonair: | |
| And she’s called Sack, my DEAR. | |
| Sack’s my better Mistris far, | 15 |
| Sack’s my only beauty-star; | |
| Whose rich beams, and glorious rays, | |
| Twinkle in each red rose and face: | |
| Should I all her virtues show, | |
| Thou thyself would love-sick prove, | 20 |
| AND she’d prove thy Mistris TOO. | |
| She with no dart-scorn will blast me; | |
| But upon thy bed can cast me; | |
| Yet ne’er blush herself too red, | |
| Nor fear of loss of Maiden-head: | 25 |
| And she can (the truth to say) | |
| Spirits into me convey, | |
| MORE than thou canst take AWAY. | |
| Getting kisses here’s no toil, | |
| Here’s no Handkerchief to spoil; | 30 |
| Yet I better Nectar sip, | |
| Than dwells upon thy lip: | |
| And though mute and still she be, | |
| Quicker wit she brings to me, | |
| Than e’er I could find in THEE. | 35 |
| If I go, ne’er think to see | |
| Any more a fool of me; | |
| I’ll no liberty up give, | |
| Nor a Maudlin-like love live, | |
| No, there’s nought shall win me to ’t, | 40 |
| ’Tis not all thy smiles can do ’t, | |
| Nor thy Maiden-head to BOOT. | |
| Yet if thou’lt but take the pain | |
| TO be good but once again; | |
| If one smile then call me back, | 45 |
| THOU shalt be that Lady Sack: | |
| Faith but try, and thou shalt see | |
| What a loving Soul I’ll be, | |
| WHEN I am drunk with nought but thee. | |
THE ANSWER I PRAY thee, Drunkard, get thee gone, | 50 |
| Thy Mistris Sack doth smell too strong: | |
| Think you I intend to wed, | |
| A sloven to be-piss my bed? | |
| No, your staining me’s to say, | |
| You have been drinking all this day. | 55 |
| Go, be gone, away, away. | |
| Where you have your Mistris Sack, | |
| Which hath already spoiled your back, | |
| And methinks should be too hot, | |
| To be cloistered in a pot. | 60 |
| Though you say she is so fair, | |
| So lovely, and so debonair, | |
| She is but of a yellow hair. | |
| Sack’s a whore which burns like fire, | |
| Sack consumes and is a dryer; | 65 |
| And her ways do only tend | |
| To bring men unto their end: | |
| Should I all her vices tell, | |
| Her rovings and her swearings fell, | |
| Thou wouldst damn her into Hell. | 70 |
| Sack which no dart-scorns will blast thee, | |
| But upon thy bed still cast thee: | |
| And by that impudence doth show, | |
| That no virtue she doth know: | |
| For she will, the truth to say, | 75 |
| Thy body in an hour decay, | |
| More than I can in a day. | |
| Though for kisses there’s no toil, | |
| Yet your body she doth spoil: | |
| Sipping Nectar whilst you sit, | 80 |
| She doth quite besot your wit: | |
| Though she is mute, she’ll make you loud: | |
| Brawl and fight in every crowd, | |
| When your reason she doth cloud. | |
| Nor do you ever look to see | 85 |
| Any more a smile from me, | |
| I’ll [yield] no liberty, nor sign, | |
| Which I truly may call mine. | |
| No, no sleight shall win me to ’t, | |
| ’Tis not all thy parts can do ’t, | 90 |
| Thy Person, nor thy Land to boot. | |
| Yet if thou wilt take the pain, | |
| To be sober once again, | |
| And but make much of thy back, | |
| I will be instead of Sack. | 95 |
| Faith but try, and thou shalt see, | |
| What a loving soul I’ll be: | |
| When thou art drunk with nought but me. | |