An Ode to Master Anthony Stafford

Come, spur away,I have no patience for a longer stay,But must go downAnd leave the chargeable noise of this great town:I will the country see,Where old simplicity,Though hid in gray,Doth look more gayThan foppery in plush and scarlet clad.Farewell, you city wits, that areAlmost at civil war--’Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.

More of my daysI will not spend to gain an idiot’s praise;Or to make sportFor some slight Puisne of the Inns of Court.Then, worthy Stafford, say,How shall we spend the day?With what delightsShorten 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 treeWe’ll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry;And every dayGo see the wholesome country girls make hay,Whose brown hath lovelier graceThan any painted faceThat I do knowHyde Park can show:Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet(Though some of them in greater stateMight court my love with plate)The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street.

But think uponSome other pleasures: these to me are none.Why do I prateOf women, that are things against my fate!I never mean to wedThat torture to my bed:My Muse is sheMy love shall be.Let clowns get wealth and heirs: when I am goneAnd 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.No fruit shall ’scapeOur palates, from the damson to the grape.Then, full, we’ll seek a shade,And hear what music’s made;How PhilomelHer 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 hawk shall fly:Nor will we spareTo hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare;But let our hounds run looseIn 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, are all but parts of her great royalty.

And when we meanTo taste of Bacchus’ blessings now and then,And drink by stealthA cup or two to noble Barkley’s health,I’ll take my pipe and tryThe Phrygian melody;Which he that hears,Lets through his earsA madness to distemper all the brain:Then I another pipe will takeAnd Doric music make,To civilize with graver notes our wits again.