The speaker heads to a wine-house, and the poem is honest about why: it isn't for pleasure alone but "to know my fear / of losing time." Underneath the drinking and the flirting sits a plain dread of mortality, of days slipping away unused. The title makes the idea sharper. If death is always coming, then a night of passion becomes a small act of defiance, a way of slipping out from under its watch.
The final lines carry the poem's twist. The speaker wants to turn "an ordinary lay" into "a mad love." That suggests an everyday encounter being deliberately inflated into something wild and intense, as if feeling enough could make the moment count for more. There's a hint of self-awareness here, maybe even a little sadness, since the speaker seems to know the madness is chosen rather than found. The mood is wry, restless, and quietly urgent, with a bit of bravado covering real anxiety.