THOMAS RANDOLPH
Though hid in gray, Doth look more gay Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad. Farewell, 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 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 arc 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 gam 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.
3H
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