I HAVE a mistress, for perfections rare
In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair.
on the altar shine her eyes;
Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice;
And wheresoeer my fancy would begin,
her perfection lets religion in.
We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours
As chastely as the morning dews
I touch her, like my beads, with devout care,
And come unto my courtship as my prayer.
to hasten Him into the Country
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,
Though hid in gray,
Doth look more
Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad.
Farewell, you city wits, that are
Almost at civil war
that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.
More of my days
I will not spend to gain an idiots praise;
Or to make sport
For some slight
Puisne of the Inns of Court.
Then, worthy Stafford, say,
How shall we spend the day?
With what delights
When from this tumult we are got secure,
Where mirth with all her freedom goes,
Yet shall no
Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure?
There from the tree
Well 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
Hyde Park can show:
Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet
(Though some of them in greater
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
Let clowns get wealth and heirs: when I am gone
And that great bugbear, grisly Death,
Shall take this
If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.
Of this no more!
Well rather taste the bright Pomonas store.
No fruit shall scape
from the damson to the grape.
Then, full, well seek a shade,
And hear what musics made;
tale doth tell,
And how the other birds do fill the quire;
The thrush and blackbird lend their throats,
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
the crafty fox or timorous hare;
But let our hounds run loose
In any ground theyll choose;
The buck shall
The stag, and all.
Our pleasures must from their own warrants be,
For to my Muse, if not to me,
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
or two to noble Barkleys health,
Ill take my pipe and try
The Phrygian melody;
Which he that hears,
through his ears
A madness to distemper all the brain:
Then I another pipe will take
And Doric music make,
civilize with graver notes our wits again.
Copyright: All texts on Bibliomania are © Bibliomania.com Ltd,
and may not be reproduced in any form without our written permission.
See our FAQ for more details.