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Alexander Brome (Александр Бром)

The Libertine


PErswade me not, I vow I'll love no more,
My heart has now ta'n quarter;
My fetters I'll no more adore,
Nor madly run, as heretofore,
To break my freedoms Charter:
He, that once fails, may try again;
But who so often fool'd has bin,
And still attempts, commits a triple sin:
He's his own humours Martyr.
I'll use my liberty to run
Abroad, and still be choosing:
Who would confine himself to one
That has power of refusing?


The unconfined Bee, we see, has power,
To kiss and feel each flower;
Nor is his pleasure limited
To th' ruines of one maidenhead,
Nor ty'd to ones embraces:
But having's will of one, he'll fly
T'another, and there load his thigh.
Why should he have more priviledge than I?
Since both our amorous cases
Differ in this alone; his thighs,
When he abroad doth rome,
Loaden with spoyls return, But mine
Come weak and empty home.


The self same beauty that I've often sworn
Dwelt only in my dearest,
I see by other Ladies worn,
Whom the same Graces do adorn:
I like that face that's nearest.
This I salute, and walk with that;
With this I sing, with t'other chat,
I've none to Catechize me where? or what?
Nor will be ty'd t' a Querist.
Thus out of all, Pigmalion like,
My fancy limns a woman;
To her I freely sacrifice,
And rival'd am by no man.

Alexander Brome's other poems:
  1. The Prodigal
  2. To his Mistress (WHy dost thou frown my dear, on me?)
  3. The Prisoners
  4. Against Corrupted Sack
  5. The Damosel

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