Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/333

 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,