Verse > Anthologies > T. R. Smith, ed. > Poetica Erotica: A Collection of Rare and Curious Amatory Verse
T. R. Smith, comp.  Poetica Erotica: Rare and Curious Amatory Verse.  1921–22.
A Song: “Pox take you Mistris I’ll be gone”
(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.
I PRAY thee, Drunkard, get thee gone,
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.

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