e VI

12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

SCOTCH WHISKY

TiP7°1"4 12 YEAR OLD COMPETITION

Marvellian

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1703 you were in- vited to write a poem entitled 7o His Not LS° Coy Mistress', using Marvell's metre uut not necessarily his language. This was done long ago by Wynford v aughan-Thomas; the well-known radio broadcaster:

Time's Winged Chariot (poets say) Warns us to love while yet we may; Must I not hurry all the more Who find it parked outside my door? For those who sipped Love in their prime Must gulp it down at Closing Time.

YOU performed with skill and wit; every- °rie on my short list of 16 deserved a quid °I. two. But competitions being what they are, the six prizewinners printed below take all (£14 each), and the bonus bottle of

Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky is exclusively A. C. Bowden's.

Were a Physician to apprise Me of my imminent Demise, Then I would suffer no Distress At your unbridled Eagerness. I would permit you to advance, Caress me as they do in France, And lead me straightway to your Bed, Where we'd indulge till I were dead.

However, since my Life appears Good for another two score Years, I bid you heed the Rule whereby Well-bred young Ladies should be shy.

When I extol you with my Lyre, Do not, I pray, shed your Attire And urge me on with brazen Tongue, But smile, and wait, for Time is young.

(A. C. Bowden) Would there were songs that could be sung To praise the valour of your tongue That claims a hundred ways to know How best to make emotions flow!

Ah, mistress mine, seductress, tell How you have learned your art so well;

So free are you of all restraint

With you Priapus would grow faint.

Had I but time enough and space To meet your needs and match your pace, A thousand lives would not suffice To learn the limits of your vice; Though worn and weary I should try Your deepest lusts to satisfy, Such efforts, mistress, would be vain: You would demand it all again.

(Frank McDonald) Since we have world enough, and time, Some coyness, lady, is no crime.

Allow your beauty still to be A match for your virginity Until tomorrow, or next week.

No need to roll your eyes, and squeak, And imitate some Turkish tart To show me your impatient heart.

As mountaineers acclimatise, I gasp and gaze with longing eyes Upon the peak I yearn to climb, But need the winding path of time.

Be still, my love, and only spare A breath of passion here and there; Then, after hours of slow conquest, Admit me to your Everest. (Paul Griffin) Delicious Bimbo of my heart, How brilliant your erotic art, For modesty both false and true Are failings quite unknown to you; To cramp your style with bras or briefs Does not accord with your beliefs. But now, oh dear, what are you at? You mean, we really should — like that?

I reckon that one is a pose Not even Alex Comfort knows!

But wait; no batsman's need have we To score the fastest century — I'm not quite sure that my physique Is up to such way-out technique; I'll do my best, I promise, but Don't blame me if I bust a gut. (A. M. Poole) Were 1 but young and in my prime, This ardour, lady, were no crime.

I'd love from dusk till rise of sun And say that I had scarce begun.

My work would just be what I do When I am not embracing you.

Who stands upon the lowest rung Has little fear of gossip's tongue; But having gained some small success, Be wary of the tabloid press.

A man in my position must Prove worthy of the public's trust.

'Whiter than white'? Yes, that's the phrase For any linen one displays.

There is a moral code to keep.

Besides, I need my eight hours' sleep.

(Keith Norman) If endless potency were mine This ardour, lady, would be fine.

I should excel in every lay, Afire by night, untir'd by day; And thou by every means connive To keep th'affirming flame alive.

So should we elevate our lust Above our tombs and bodies' dust.

But now my back and loins, I fear, Are locked by many a passing year; Nor supple oils nor subtle hand Can make th'impotent pole upstand.

Since, then, this key's so far declin'cl Tht did life's iron grates unwind, That lock some other means must move To feed thy still lubricious love. (Richard Hills)