D RETIREMENT. O not their prófane orgies hear, Who but to wealth no altars rear; The soul's oft poison'd through the ear: Castara! rather seek to dwell In the' silence of a private cell: No north-wind shall the corn infest, A Satyr, here and there, shall trip The Nymphs, with quivers shall adorn Waken'd with which, and viewing thee, RANDOLPH. FAIR Lady, when you see the grace Of beauty in your looking-glass- The thing that men most doat upon. Which had you once but gaz'd upon, Now, you have what you love (you'll say), What then is left for me, I pray?" My face, sweet Heart! if it please thee; So either love shall gain his due, ODE. COME, spur away, I have no patience for a longer stay, And leave the chargeable noise of this great V town: I will the country see 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 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 ; 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; 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. 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; 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, We will all sports enjoy, which others but desire. Where,at what fowl we please,our hawks shall fly. 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 mast 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, Lets through his ears A madness to distemper all the brain. And Doric music make, To civilize with graver notes our wits again. |