To his Friend Francis Th: leading his lyfe in the Countrie at his desire

MY Francis, whilst you breath your foming steede
Athwart the fields in peace to practise warre,
In Countrie whilst your keneld Hounds doe feede,
Or in the wood for taken pray doe iarre:
Whilst you with Haukes the sielie Foule doe slape,
And take delight a quick retriue to haue,
To flee to marke, and heare the Spanels baye
Wasting your age in pleasure passing braue:
In Citie I my youthfull yeares doe spende,
At Booke perhaps sometime to weare the day:
Where man to man not friend to friend doth lende,
With vs is naught but pitch (my Friend) and pay.
Great store of Coyne, but fewe enioy the same,
The owners holde it fast with lymed handes,
We liue by losse, we play and practise game
Wee by and fell, the streate is all our landes.
Well storde we are of crie needefull thing.
Wood, Water, Coale, Flesh, Fishe we haue ynow:
(What lack you) Wyues and Maides doe daylie sing
The Horne is rife, it sticks on many a brow.
But yet (I say) the Countrie hath no peere,
The Towne is but a toyle, and wearie lyfe:
We like your Countrie sportes (Friend Francis) heere,
The Citie is a place of bate and strife.
Wherefore I thinke thee wise and full of thrift
That fledst the Towne, and hast that blessed gift.