Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Thomas Randolph. 16051635300. An Ode to Master Anthony Stafford to hasten Him into the Country
COME, spur away, | |
I have no patience for a longer stay, | |
But must go down | |
And leave the chargeable noise of this great town: | |
I will the country see, | 5 |
Where old simplicity, | |
Though hid in gray, | |
Doth look more gay | |
Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad. | |
Farewell, you city wits, that are | 10 |
Almost at civil war— | |
‘Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad. | |
More of my days | |
I will not spend to gain an idiot’s praise; | |
Or to make sport | 15 |
For some slight Puisne of the Inns of Court. | |
Then, worthy Stafford, say, | |
How shall we spend the day? | |
With what delights | |
Shorten the nights? | 20 |
When from this tumult we are got secure, | |
Where mirth with all her freedom goes, | |
Yet shall no finger lose; | |
Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure? | |
There from the tree | 25 |
We’ll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry; | |
And every day | |
Go see the wholesome country girls make hay, | |
Whose brown hath lovelier grace | |
Than any painted face | 30 |
That I do know | |
Hyde Park can show: | |
Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet | |
(Though some of them in greater state | |
Might court my love with plate) | 35 |
The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street. | |
But think upon | |
Some other pleasures: these to me are none. | |
Why do I prate | |
Of women, that are things against my fate! | 40 |
I never mean to wed | |
That torture to my bed: | |
My Muse is she | |
My love shall be. | |
Let clowns get wealth and heirs: when I am gone | 45 |
And that great bugbear, grisly Death, | |
Shall take this idle breath, | |
If I a poem leave, that poem is my son. | |
Of this no more! | |
We’ll rather taste the bright Pomona’s store. | 50 |
No fruit shall ‘scape | |
Our palates, from the damson to the grape. | |
Then, full, we’ll seek a shade, | |
And hear what music ‘s made; | |
How Philomel | 55 |
Her tale doth tell, | |
And how the other birds do fill the quire; | |
The thrush and blackbird lend their throats, | |
Warbling melodious notes; | |
We will all sports enjoy which others but desire. | 60 |
Ours is the sky, | |
Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly: | |
Nor will we spare | |
To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare; | |
But let our hounds run loose | 65 |
In any ground they’ll choose; | |
The buck shall fall, | |
The stag, and all. | |
Our pleasures must from their own warrants be, | |
For to my Muse, if not to me, | 70 |
I’m sure all game is free: | |
Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty. | |
And when we mean | |
To taste of Bacchus’ blessings now and then, | |
And drink by stealth | 75 |
A cup or two to noble Barkley’s health, | |
I’ll take my pipe and try | |
The Phrygian melody; | |
Which he that hears, | |
Lets through his ears | 80 |
A madness to distemper all the brain: | |
Then I another pipe will take | |
And Doric music make, | |
To civilize with graver notes our wits again. |