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Alexander Brome (Александр Бром)

Reasons of Love


PRethee, why dost thou love me so?
Or is it but in show?
What is there that your thoughts can pick about me?
If beauty in my face you view,
'Twas ne're writ there unless by you,
I little find within, nor you without me.


I ha'nt the Rhetorick of the foot:
Nor lean long leg to boot,
Nor can I court with congees, trips, and dances;
I seldom sing, or if I do,
You'll scarce tell whe'r I sing or no,
I can't endure Love-stories and Romances.


I neither know, nor love to play
And fool my time away;
Nor talk in Dialects to please your fancy:
Nor carve the Capon or the Quail,
But hew it through from head to tail,
A complement to me is Negromancy.


I boast not of a pedigree,
That Lords or Lordlings be,
Nor do I lace my name with Grandsires story,
Nor will I take the pains to look
For a fools coat i'th' Heralds book,
My fame's mine own, no monumental glory.


I am not fashion'd of the mode,
Nor rant i'th Gallants rode,
Nor in my habit do observe decorum:
Perfumes shall not my breath belie,
Nor clothes my body glorifie,
They shall derive their honour, 'cause I wore 'um,


No frizling nor scarce locks, and yet
Perhaps more hair than wit:
Nor shall Sweet-powders vanity delight you;
Though my hairs little, I'le not carry
A wig for an Auxiliary.
If my locks can't, anothers shant invite you▪


And which is worse, I cannot woe
With Gold as others doe,
Nor bait your love with Lordships, Lands, and Towers▪
Just so much money I have by,
As serves to spoil my poetry,
Not to expose me to the higher powers.


Nay you shan't make a fool of me,
Though I no Statist be,
Nor shall I be so valiant to fight for ye,
I han't the patience to court,
Nor did I e're do't, but in sport,
I won't run mad for love, nor yet go marry.


And yet I know some cause does move,
Though it be not pure love
'Tis for your honours sake that you affect me;
For well you know, she that's my Lass,
Is canoniz'd in every glass,
And her health's drunk, by all that do respect me.


Then love thou on, I'le tipple till
Both of us have our fill,
And so thy name shall never be forgotten;
I'll make thee Hellen's fame survive,
Though she be dead and thou alive,
For though thou'rt not so old, thy heart's as rotten.

Alexander Brome's other poems:
  1. The Cavalier
  2. The Hard Heart
  3. The Reformation
  4. The Libertine
  5. The Prodigal

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