| 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. | |
