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There is no faith in claret, and it shall Henceforth with me be held apocryphal. I'll trust a small-beer promise, nay, a troth Washed in the Thames, before a French wine oath. That grape, they say, is binding; yes, 'tis so, And it has made your souls thus costive too. Circe transformed the Greeks; no hard design, For some can do as much with claret wine Upon themselves; witness you two, allowed Once honest, now turned air, and à la mode. Begin no health in this, or if by chance The King's 'twill question your allegiance; And men will, after all your ruffling, say You drink as some do fight, in the French way: Engage and trouble many, when 'tis known You spread their interest to wave your own. Away with this false Christian: it shall be An excommunicate from mirth, and me; Give me the Catholic diviner flame, To light me to the fair Odelia's name; 'Tis sack that justifies both man and verse, Whilst you in Lethe-claret still converse. Forget your own names next; and when you look With hope to find, be lost in the church-book.
James Shirley
Read poems about / on: trust, faith, hope, lost, light
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