Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/332

        More of my days
  I will not spend to gain an idiot's 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
        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.