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 Barkley’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 civilise with graver notes our wits again.