Song XXXIII. Translated out of French

Now I'm resolv'd to love no more,
But sleep by Night, and drink by day:
Your coyness, Cloris, pray give o'e,
And turn your tempting eyes away.
From Ladies I'll withdraw my heart
And fix it only on the Quart.

I'll place no happiness of mine
A puling beauty still to court
And say she's glorious and divine,
The Vintner makes the better sport.
And when I say my Dear, my Heart;
I only mean it to the Quart.

Love has no more prerogative,
To make me desperate courses take,
Nor me t'an Hermitage shall drive,
I'll all my vows to th' goblet make
And if I wear a Capuchoone
It shall a Tankard be or none.

'Tis Wine alone that cheers the soul,
But love and Ladies make us sad;
I'm merry when I court the bowl,
While he that courts the Madam's mad,
Then Ladies wonder not at me,
For you are coy, but wine is free.