Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/333

  Let clowns get wealth and heirs: when I am gone
    And that 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,