I.

Why shou'd you me Boracho call?
Since you (my Dear!) are liker one;
Who raise me, but to make me fall,
My Sense, with Love of you, to drown;
You, more like a Boracho , are,
The Cure of Love, and Ease of Care:

II.

Since the sole Diff'rence that I know,
There seems to be, 'twixt it and thee,
Turning it up, I joyful grow,
Turning up thee, more sad shall be;
More glad, as it grows emptier,
More sad, as you more full appear;

III.

So both wou'd more my Pleasure be,
Were it like you, you more like her;
Were it, or you, ne'er forc'd on me,
But both at Pleasure, taken were;
If, giving me Joys, it wou'd grow
No Lanker, or no Fuller you;

IV.

If it, when I turn her Tail up,
More empty wou'd not grow to me;
Nor thou, the more I thee shou'd stop,
The fuller, to my Sorrow, be;
With me, like my Boracho , too,
Then all the World o'er shou'd you go;

V.

You'd now (since Love's Portmanteau grown)
With your Boracho , go and come;
Abroad, move with him up and down,
But to lie still with him at Home;
Be like the Dons Portmanteau so,
At once Life's Ease, and Luggage too.