In this sonnet, Love becomes a wasteful prodigal throwing a grand banquet. He seats the speaker’s senses around a table and calls the Heart to be the guest of honour. But this host is a glutton: he refuses ordinary wine and instead guzzles the speaker’s own tears, burning them with sighs like a connoisseur savouring a costly vintage. Drunk on sorrow, Love turns into a swaggering brute and, in his stupor, stabs his dearest friend—the speaker’s kind, true Heart. The final couplet steps back with a wry, almost amused warning: this is what happens when you keep company with a drunkard. The mood is darkly comic, mixing pain with theatrical exaggeration. The speaker doesn’t rage or weep openly; instead, he offers a knowing shake of the head, as if recounting a foolish night out that ended in disaster. Beneath the clever metaphor lies a real sting: love, once it takes over, can destroy the very seat of affection.
Sonnet VII: Love in a Humour — Summary
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.