ODE TO MASTER ANTHONY STAFFORD.

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,
Where old simplicity,
Though hid in grey,

Doth look more gay

Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad.

Farewell, you city wits, that are

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

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?

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

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,

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)

The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street.

But think upon

Some other pleasures: these to me are none.
Why did I prate

Of women, that are things against my fate?
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, And the 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.
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

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.

Ours is the sky,

Whereat 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

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,

I'm sure all game is free:

Heaven, earth, all are but parts of her great royalty.

And when we mean

To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then,
And drink by stealth

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

A madness to distemper all the brain.
Then I another pipe will take

And Doric music make,

To civilise with graver notes our wits again.

Colin. Early in May up got the jolly rout,
Call'd by the lark, and spread the fields about :
One, for to breathe himself, would coursing be
From this same beech to yonder mulberry,
A second leap'd his supple nerves to try;
A third was practising his melody;
This a new jig was footing, others were
Busied at wrestling, or to throw the bar,
Ambitious which should bear the bell away,
And kiss the nut-brown lady of the May.
This stirr'd 'em up; a jolly swain was he,
Whom Peg and Susan after victory

Crown'd with a garland they had made, beset
With daisies, pinks, and many a violet,
Cowslip, and gilliflower. Rewards, though small,
Encourage virtue, but if none at all

Meet her, she languisheth, and dies, as now
Where worth's deni'd the honour of a bough.

And, Thenot, this the cause I read to be

Of such a dull and general lethargy.

Thenot. Ill thrive the lout that did their mirth gainsay! Wolves haunt his flocks that took those sports away!

Colin. Some melancholy swains about have gone
To teach all zeal their own complexion:
Choler they will admit sometimes, I see,
But phlegm and sanguine no religions be.
These teach that dancing is a Jezebel,
And barley-break the ready way to hell;
The morrice-idols, Whitsun-ales, can be
But profane relics of a jubilee !

These, in a zeal t'express how much they do
The organs hate, have silenc'd bagpipes, too,
And harmless Maypoles, all are rail'd upon,
As if they were the towers of Babylon.
Some think not fit there should be any sport
I' th' country, 'tis a dish proper to th' Court.
Mirth not becomes 'em ; let the saucy swain
Eat beef and bacon, and go sweat again.
Besides, what sport can in the pastimes be,
When all is but ridiculous foppery?

FROM A PASTORAL COURTSHIP.'

Behold these woods, and mark, my sweet,
How all the boughs together meet?
The cedar his fair arms displays,
And mixes branches with the bays!
The lofty pine deigns to descend,
And sturdy oaks do gently bend.
One with another subtly weaves
Into one loom their various leaves,
As all ambitious were to be
Mine and my Phyllis' canopy.

Let's enter and discourse our loves;
These are, my dear, no tell-tale groves!
There dwell no pies nor parrots there,
To prate again the words they hear,
Nor babbling echo, that will tell

The neighbouring hills one syllable.

Now let me sit, and fix mine eyes
On thee, that art my paradise.
Thou art my all; my spring remains
In the fair violets of thy veins ;
And that you are my summer's day,
Ripe cherries in thy lips display.
And when for autumn I would seek,
'Tis in the apples of thy cheek.
But that which only moves my smart,
Is to see winter in thy heart.
Strange, when at once in one appear
All the four seasons of the year!

I'll clasp that neck, where should be set
A rich and orient carcanet.

But swains are poor; admit of, then,
More natural chains-the arms of men.

TO BEN JONSON.

I was not born to Helicon, nor dare
Presume to think myself a Muse's heir.
I have no title to Parnassus Hill
Nor any acre of it by the will

Of a dead ancestor, nor could I be
Ought but a tenant unto poetry.

But thy adoption quits me of all fear,

And makes me challenge a child's portion there.

I am akin to heroes, being thine,

And part of my alliance is divine,

Orpheus, Musæus, Homer too, beside

Thy brothers by the Roman mother's side;

As Ovid, Virgil, and the Latin lyre

That is so like thee, Horace; the whole quire Of poets are, by thy adoption, all

My uncles; thou hast given me power to call Phoebus himself my grandsire; by this grant Each sister of the Nine is made my aunt.