ODE,

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

Tho' hid in grey,

Doth look more gay
Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad.

Farewel you city wits, that are

Almost at civil war ; 'Tis time that I grow wise when all the world grow.s

mad.
More of my days
I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise :

Or to make sport

For some slight puny 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 girls make hay,
Whose brown hath lovelier grace
Than any painted face

That I do know
Hyde Park can shew;

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 Cheape, 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? 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
Where,at what fowl we please,our hawks shalliy.

Nor will we spare
To hunt the crafty fox, or tim'rous hare;

But let our hounds run loose
In any ground they 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 am sure all game is free; Heav'n, 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
A cup or two to noble Barkley's health,

r'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 civilize with graver notes our wits again.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

SONNET.

WHEN love, with unconfined wings,

Hovers within my gates ; And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fetter'd with her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air

Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round,

With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses crown'd,

Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes, that tipple in the deep,

Know no such liberty. When linnet like confined, I

With shriller note shall sing,
The mercy, sweetness, majesty

And glories of my king:
When I shall voice aloud how good

He is, how great should be,
Th’ enlarged winds that curl the flood

Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage,
Minds innocent and quiet take

That for a hermitage.
If I have freedom in my love,

And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above

Enjoy such liberty.

SONG.
WHY dost thou say I am forsworn,

Since thine I vow'd to be?
Lady, it is already morn;

It was last night I swore to thee

That fond impossibility,
Yet have I lov'd thee well, and long;

A tedious twelve-hours' space!
I should all other beauties wrong,

And rob thee of a new embrace,
Did I still doat upon that face.

SONG. AMARANTHA, sweet and fair;

Ah! braid no more that shining hair; As my curious hand or eye Hovering round thee, let it fly. Let it fly as unconfin'd As its calm ravisher the wind; Who hath left his darling east To wanton o'er that spicy nest. Every tress, must be confest, But neatly tangled at the best; Like a clew of golden thread, Most excellently ravelled. Do not then bind up that light In ribands, and o'ercloud in night, But, like the sun in's early ray, Shake your head, and scatter day!