Alexander Radcliffe (writer)

Alexander Radcliffe (c. 1653 – in or before 1696) was an English poet. The Ramble, &c. (1682) The Ramble, an Anti-Heroick Poem: Together With Some Terrestrial Hymns and Carnal Ejaculations (1682) To what intent or purpose was Man made,Who is by birth to misery betrayed?Man in his tedious course of life runs throughMore plagues than all the Land of Egypt knew.Doctors, divines, grave disputations, puns,Ill-looking citizens and scurvy duns;Insipid squires, fat bishops, deans and chapters,Enthusiasts, prophecies, new rants and raptures;Pox, gout, catarrhs, old sores, cramps, rheums and aches;Half-witted lords, double-chinned bawds with patches;Illiterate courtiers, Chancery suits for life,A teazing whore, and a more tedious wife;Raw Inns of Court men, empty fops, buffoons,Bullies, robust round aldermen, and clowns;Gown-men which argue, and discuss, and prate,And vent dull notions of a future state;Sure of another world, yet do not knowWhether they shall be saved, or damned, or how.  ’Twere better then that Man had never been,Than thus to be perplexed: God save the Queen. "As Concerning Man" Fondling forbear, ’tis Heresy to thinkThere is a Mistress equal to thy Drink;Or if in love with any, ’t must be ratherWith that plump Girl that does call Bacchus Father.Thou mayst out-look, arm’d with her warm embrace,Ten thousand Volleys shot from Woman’s Face,Who wou’d withstand without this Aid DivineTen thousand times as many Tears of thine;As many Sighs and Prayers would be her sport,Exalted she so long maintains her Fort.But when Diviner Sack hath fir’d thy Blood,Creating Flames which cannot be withstood;To which is added Confidence as greatAs his, that aim’d at Jove’s Celestial Seat;Boldly march on, not granting her the leisureOf Parly; ’tis the Speed augments the Pleasure.If she cry out, with Kisses stop her Breath;She cannot wish to die a better Death.Tell her the pleasant passages betweenThe God of War and Love’s more gentle Queen.When feeble Vulcan came, and in a fearLest they wou’d not continue longer there,He chain’d ’em to the sport, with an intentTo keep such Lovers for a Precedent;Glad to behold a tempting pleasure thatHis weak Endeavours never could create.Then stroke her Breasts those Mountains of Delight,Whose very Touch would fire an Anchorite.Next let thy wanton Palm a little stray,And dip thy Fingers in the Milky Way:Thus having raiz’d her, gently let her fall,Love’s Trumpets sound, Now Mortal have at all.A happy end thus made of all your sport,Lead her where every Lover shou’d resort,Where Madam Sack’s enthron’d, the tempting’st LassThat e’er was seated in a Venice Glass.Last, that this sense of Pleasure may remain,Cast away Thought and fall to Drink again.Drink off the Glasses, swallow every Bowl,And pity him that sighs away his SoulFor that poor trifle Woman, who is mineWith one small Gallon of Immortal Wine.To get a Mistress Drinking is the knack;Love’s grand existence is Almighty Sack. "The Canary Mistress" External links Category:Poets from England