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Poem	Love in a humor play'd the prodigal And bade my Senses to a solemn feast; Yet, more to grace the company withal, Invites my Heart to be the chiefest guest. No other drink would serve this glutton's turn But precious tears distilling from mine eyne, Which with my sighs this epicure doth burn, Quaffing carouses in this costly wine; Where, in his cups o'ercome with foul excess, Straightways he plays a swaggering ruffian's part, And at the banquet in his drunkenness Slew his dear friend, my kind and truest Heart. A gentle warning, friends, thus may you see What 'tis to keep a drunkard company.
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