THOMAS RANDOLPH

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 are 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 gain 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.

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.

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