THOMAS RANDOLPH

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.

Of this no more ! We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store.

No fruit shall '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 tale 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 ; The buck shall fall, The stag, and all.

Our pleasures must from their own warrants be, For to my Muse, if not to me,

I'm sure all game is free : Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.

And when we mean To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then,

And drink by stealth A cup or two to noble Barkley's health,

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