Poem by Alexander Brome

Loves Anarchy

1.

LOve, I must tell thee, I'll no longer be
A Victime to thy beardless Deity:
Nor shall this heart of mine,
Now 'tis return'd,
Be offered at thy shrine,
Or at thine Altar burn'd▪
Love, like Religion's made an airy name,
To awe those souls whom want of wit makes tame.

2.

There's no such thing as Quiver, Shafts, or Bow,
Nor does Love wound, but men imagine so.
Or if it does perplex
And grieve the mind,
'Tis the poor masculine Sex:
Women no sorrows find.
'Tis not our persons, nor our parts, can move 'um,
Nor is't mens worth, but wealth, makes Ladies love 'um.

3.

Reason henceforth, not love, shall be my guide,
My fellow-creatures sha'nt be Deisi'd;
I'll now rebel be,
And so pull down
That Distaff-Monarchy,
And Females fancy'd crown.
In these unbridled times who would not strive
To free his neck from all prerogative?

1. To his Mistress (LAdy you'l wonder when you see)
2. Copernicus
3. The Leveller
4. The Hard Heart
5. The Saints Encouragement

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