To His Friend J. H. - Poem by Alexander Brome
If thou canst fashion no excuse,
To stay at home, as 'tis thy use,
When I do send for thee,
Let neither sickness, way, nor rain,
With fond delusions thee detain,
But come thy way to me.
Hang such a sickness, that has power,
To seize on thee at such an hour,
When thou should'st take thy pleasure;
Go give thy doctor half a fee,
That it may never trouble thee,
Until thou art at leisure.
We have a cup of cider here,
That scorns that common strumpet, beer,
And such dull drinks as they're.
Their potions made of hops and malt,
Can only make our fancies halt,
This makes them quick as air.
Cere with Bacchus dares compare,
And swears her fruits the liquor are,
That poets so implore:
A sip of sack may work a verse,
But he that drinks a bowl of hers,
Shall thunder out a score.
To morrow morning come away,
Friday we'll vote a happy day,
In spite of Erra Pater;
And bring with you a spark or twain,
Such as will drink, and drink again,
To treat about the matter.
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