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COME, spur away,
I have no patience for a longer stay,
Tho' hid in grey,
Doth look more gay
Farewel you city wits, that are
Almost at civil war ; 'Tis time that I grow wise when all the world grow.s
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
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,
That I do know
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,
Of this no more-
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;
Her tale doth tell,
The thrush and blackbird lend their throats,
Warbling melodious notes,
Ours is the sky
Nor will we spare
But let our hounds run loose
The buck shall fall,
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,
r'll take my pipe and try
Which he that hears
Lets through his ears
Then I another pipe will take,
And Doric music make,
WHEN love, with unconfined wings,
Hovers within my gates ; And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at my grates;
And fetter'd with her eye,
Know no such liberty.
With no allaying Thames,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When healths and draughts go free,
Know no such liberty. When linnet like confined, I
With shriller note shall sing,
And glories of my king:
He is, how great should be,
Know no such liberty.
Nor iron bars a cage,
That for a hermitage.
And in my soul am free,
Enjoy such liberty.
Since thine I vow'd to be?
It was last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility,
A tedious twelve-hours' space!
And rob thee of a new embrace,
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!