An Ode to Mr Anthony Stafford to hasten him into the Country,

Come spurre away,
I have no patience for a longer stay;
But must goe downe,
And leave the chargeable noise of this great Towne.
I will the country see,
Where old simplicity,
Though hid in gray
Doth looke more gay
Then foppery in plush and scarlat clad.
Farewell you City-wits that are
Almost at Civill warre;
'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.

More of my dayes
I will not spend to gaine an Idiots praise;
Or to make sport
For some slight Punie of the Innes 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 freedome goes,
Yet shall no finger loose;
Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure.

There from the tree
Wee'l cherries plucke, and pick the strawbery.
And every day
Go see the wholesome Country Girles make hay.
whose browne hath lovlier grace,
Then any painted face,
That I doe know
Hide-Parke can show.
Where I had rather gaine a kisse then meet
Though some of them in greater state
Might court my love with plate,
The beauties of the Cheape, and wives of Lumbardstreet.

But thinke upon.
Some other pleasures▪ these to me are none,
Why doe I prate
Of woemen, that are things against my fate
I never meane to wed,
That torture to my bed.
My Muse is shee
My Love shall bee.
Let Clownes get wealth, and haires; when I am gone,
And the great Bugbeare grisly death
Shall take this …le breath,
If I a Poem leave, that Poem is my Sonne.
Of this no more;
Wee'l rather tast the bright Pomona's store.
No fruit shall scape
Our pallats, from the damsen, to the grape.
Then full we'l seek a shade,
And heare what musique's made;
How Philomell
Her tale doth tell:
And how the other Birds doe fill the quire;
The Thrush and Blackbird lend their throats
warbling melodious notes;
Wee will all sports enjoy, which others but desire:

Ours is the skie,
Whereat what fowle we please our Hauke shall flye;
Nor will we spare
To hunt the crafty foxe, or timorous hare▪
But let our hounds runne loose
In any ground they'l choose,
The Bucke shall fall,
The stagge and all:
Our pleasures must from their owne warrants bee,
For to my Muse, if not to mee,
I'me sure all game is free;
Heaven, Earth, are all but parts of her great Royalty.

And when we meane
To tast of Bacchus blessings now and then,
And drinke by stealth
A cup or two to noble Barkleys health.
I'le take my pipe and try
The Phrygian melody;
Which he that heares
Lets through his eares
A madnesse to distemper all the braine.
Then I another pipe will take
And Dorique musique make,
To Civilize with graver notes our wits againe.