Classic Poem

How happy Cloris (were they free)
Might our Enjoyments prove,
But you with formall Jealousie
Are still tormenting Love.

Let us (since Witt instructs us how)
Raise pleasure to the topp,
If Rivall Bottle you'll allow,
I'll suffer Rivall Fopp.

There's not a briske insipid Sparke,
That flutters in the Town,
But with your wanton Eyes you marke,
The Coxcomb for your owne.

You never thinke it worth your care,
How empty nor how dull,
The heads of your Admirers are,
Soe that their Codds be full.

All this you freely may confesse,
Yet we'll not disagree;
For did you love your pleasure lesse,
You were not fit for me.

While I, my Passion to pursue
Am whole Nights takeing in
The lusty Juice of Grapes, take you
The lusty Juice of Men.