An Ode to Master Anthony Stafford, to Hasten him into the Country Analysis

1Come, spur away!
2I have no patience for a longer stay;
3But must go down,
4And leave the chargeable noise of this great town.
5I will the country see,
6Where old simplicity,
7Though hid in gray,
8Doth look more gay
9Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad.
10Farewell, you city-wits that are
11Almost at civil war;
12'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.

13More of my days
14I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise;
15Or to make sport
16For some slight puny of the Inns of Court.
17Then, worthy Stafford, say,
18How shall we spend the day?
19With what delights
20Shorten the nights?
21When from this tumult we are got secure,
22Where mirth with all her freedom goes,
23Yet shall no finger lose;
24Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure.

25There from the tree
26We'll cherries pluck; and pick the strawberry;
27And every day
28Go see the wholesome country girls make hay,
29Whose brown hath lovelier grace
30Than any painted face
31That I do know
32Hyde Park can show.
33Where I had rather gain a kiss, than meet
34(Though some of them in greater state
35Might court my love with plate)
36The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street.

37But think upon
38Some other pleasures; these to me are none.
39Why do I prate
40Of women, that are things against my fate?
41I never mean to wed,
42That torture to my bed:
43My Muse is she
44My Love shall be.
45Let clowns get wealth, and heirs; when I am gone,
46And the great bugbear, grisly Death,
47Shall take this idle breath,
48If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.

49Of this, no more;
50We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store.
51No fruit shall 'scape
52Our palates, from the damson to the grape.
53Then, full, we'll seek a shade,
54And hear what music's made:
55How Philomel
56Her tale doth tell;
57And how the other birds do fill the quire;
58The thrush and blackbird lend their throats,
59Warbling melodious notes;
60We will all sports enjoy, which others but desire.

61Ours is the sky,
62Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly;
63Nor will we spare
64To hunt the crafty fox, or timorous hare;
65But let our hounds run loose
66In any ground they'll choose;
67The buck shall fall,
68The stag, and all.
69Our pleasures must from their own warrants be,
70For to my Muse, if not to me,
71I'm sure all game is free;
72Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.

73And when we mean
74To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then,
75And drink by stealth
76A cup or two to noble Berkeley's health:
77I'll take my pipe and try
78The Phrygian melody,
79Which he that hears,
80Lets through his ears
81A madness to distemper all the brain.
82Then I another pipe will take
83And Doric music make,
84To civilize with graver notes our wits again.

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