Come spurre away, I have no patience for a longer stay; But must go downe, And leave the chargeable noise of this great Towne. I will the country see… - Thomas Randolph

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Come spurre away,
I have no patience for a longer stay;
But must go downe,
And leave the chargeable noise of this great Towne.
I will the country see,
Where old simplicity,
Though hid in gray,
Doth looke 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 dayes
I will not spend to gaine an Idiots praise;
Or to make sport
For some slight Punie of the Innes 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 freedome goes,
Yet shall no finger loose;
Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure.There from the tree
We’ll cherries plucke, and pick the strawbery.
And every day
Go see the wholesome Country Girles make hay,
Whose browne hath lovelier grace,
Than any painted face,
That I doe know
Hyde-Parke can show.
Where I had rather gaine a kisse than meet
(Though some of them in greater state
Might court my love with plate,)
The beauties of the Cheape, and wives of Lumbardstreet.But thinke upon
Some other pleasures, these to me are none;
Why do I prate
Of women, that are things against my fate?
I never meane to wed,
That torture to my bed;
My Muse is shee
My Love shall bee.
Let Clownes get wealth, and heires; when I am gone,
And the great Bugbear grisly death
Shall take this idle breath,
If I a Poem leave, that Poem is my Sonne.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 heare what musique’s made;
How Philomell
Her tale doth tell:
And how the other Birds doe 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 skie,
Where at what fowle we please our Hawke shall fly;
Nor will we spare
To hunt the crafty foxe, or timorous hare,
But let our hounds runne loose
In any ground they’ll choose;
The buck shall fall,
The stag and all:
Our pleasures must from their owne warrants bee,
For to my Muse, if not to mee,
I’m sure all game is free;
Heaven, Earth, are all but parts of her great Royalty.And when we meane
To taste of Bacchus blessings now and then,
And drinke by stealth
A cup or two to noble Barkleys health,
I’ll take my pipe and try
The Phrygian melody;
Which he that heares
Lets through his eares
A madnesse to distemper all the braine.
Then I another pipe will take
And Dorique musique make,
To Civilize with graver notes our wits again.