THOMAS RANDOLPH
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 that great bugbear, grisly Death,
Shall take this idle breath, If I a poem leave, that poem is my son. We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store.
No fruit shaJl '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 talc 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;
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