The Lovers Mad Fits and Fancies.  
To a delightful New Tune.  
 a man  a woman holding a fan  

I Dote, I dote, but am a Sot to show it  
I was a very fool to let her know it  
For now she doth so cunning grow  
She proves a Friend worse than a Foe  
She'l neither hold me fast, nor let me go  
For she tells me I cannot forsake her,  
Then streight I endeavour to leave her  
but to make me stay,  
she throws a kiss in my way  
O then I could tarry for ever.   

Then I retire, salute and sit down by her  
Then do I fry in frost, and fréez in fire,  
And Nectar from her lips I sup  
Although I cannot drink all up.  
Yet I am foxed with kissing of the Cup.  
For her lips are two brimmers of Claret  
When first I began to miscarry  
her breasts of delight  
are two bottles of white,  
And her eyes like two cups of Canary.   

Drunk as I live, dead drunk without reprieve  
And all my secrets drivel through a sieve  
Vpon my neck, her arms she layeth  
Then all is Gospel that she saith  
Which I lay hold on with my fudled Faith  
For I find a fond Lover a Drunkard  
And dangerous when once she flies out  
with lips, and with sips  
black eyes, and white thighs  
Blind Cupid sure tippled his eyes out.   

She bids me rise, tells me I must be wise  
And be like her, for she's not in love she cries,  
Then do I fume, and sret, and throw  
Shall I be fettered to my Foe?  
Then I begin to run, but cannot go:  
I prithee sweet use me more kindly  
'Tis better to hold me fast  
if you once disengage  
your bide from his Cage  
believe me he'll leave you at last.   

The Second Part, to the same Tune.  a man  a woman  

LIke a Sot I sit, that filled the town with wit  
But now I confess I have most need of it:  
I have been drunk with Duck and Dear  
Above a quarter of a year.  
Beyond the cure of sleeping or small bear,  
For I think I can number the months too  
July, August, September, October:  
thus goes my account  
but a mischief light on't,  
For i'm sure I shall go when i'm sober.   

My legs are lamed, my courage is quiter sam'd,  
My heart and my body is inflamed:  
Now by experience I can prove,  
And swear by all the Gods above  
'Tis better to be drunk with wine than love,  
For good Sack makes us merry and witty  
Our fore-heads with Jewels adorning  
and although we do grope  
yet there is some hope  
That a man may be sober next morning.   

Now with command, she throws me from her hand  
She bids me go, & knows I cannot stand  
I measure all the ground by trips,  
Was ever a Sot so drunk with Sips?  
Or ever man so over-séen with Lips?  
I pray y' Madam Fickle be faithful  
And leave off your damnable dodging  
either love me, or leave me  
and do not deceive me  
But let me go home to my Lodging.   

I have too much, and yet my folly is such  
I cannot leave, but must have the tother touch  
Here is a Health to the King— How now,  
I'm drunk, and shall speak Treason I vow,  
But Lovers & Fools, may speak any thing you know  
I fear I have tired your patience  
But i'm sure 'tis I have the wrong on't,  
my wit is bereft me  
and all that is left me  
Is but just enough to make a Song on't.  
my Lady and I  
shall never comply  
And that is the short and the long on't.    
FINIS.   

London, Printed for F. coals, T. Vere, W. Gilbertson, and J. Wright.