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Where old simplicity,
Though hid in gray,
Doth look 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 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 country girls make hay,
Whose brown hath lovelier grace
Than any painted face
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)
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?
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 hawk shall fly;
Nor will we spare
To hunt the crafty fox, or timorous hare;
But let our hounds run loose
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,
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
A cup or two to noble Berkeley’s health:
I’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.
A Gratulatory to Mr. Ben. Johnson for his adopting of him to be his Son
I was not borne to Helicon, nor dare
Presume to thinke my selfe a Muses heire.
I have no title to Parnassus hill,
Nor any acre of it by the will
Of a dead Ancestour, nor could I bee
Ought but a tenant unto Poetrie.
But thy Adoption quits me of all feare,
And makes me challenge a childs portion there.
I am a kinne to Hero’s being thine,
And part of my alliance is divine.
Orpheus, Musaeus, Homer too; beside
Thy Brothers by the Roman Mothers side;
As Ovid, Virgil, and the Latine Lyre,
That is so like thy Horace; the whole quire
Of Poets are by thy Adoption, all
My uncles; thou hast given me pow’r to call
Phoebus himselfe my grandsire; by this graunt
Each Sister of the nine is made my Aunt.
Go you that reckon from a large descent
Your lineall Honours, and are well content
To glory in the age of your great name,
Though on a Herralds faith you build the same:
I do not envy you, nor thinke you blest
Though you may beare a Gorgon on your Crest
By direct line from Perseus; I will boast
No farther then my Father; that’s the most
I can, or should be proud of; and I were
Unworthy his adoption, if that here
I should be dully modest; boast I must
Being sonne of his Adoption, not his lust.
And to say truth, that which is best in mee
May call you father, ’twas begot by thee.
Have I a sparke of that coelestiall flame
Within me, I confesse I stole the same
Prometheus like, from thee; and may I feed
His vulture, when I dare deny the deed.
Many more moones thou hast, that shine by night,
All Bankrups, wer’t not for a borrow’d light;
Yet can forsweare it; I the debt confesse,
And thinke my reputation ne’re the lesse.
For Father let me be resolv’d by you;
Is’t a disparagement from rich Peru
To ravish gold; or theft, for wealthy Ore
To ransack Tagus, or Pactolus shore?
Or does he wrong Alcinous, that for want
Doth take from him a sprig or two, to plant
A lesser Orchard?