“Come, spur away, I have no patience for a longer stay, But must go down And leave the chargeable noise of this great town. I will the country see, Where old simplicity, Though hid in grey, Doth look more gay Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad: Farewell, you city wits, that are Almost at civil war; 'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad. More of my days I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise; Or to make sport For some slight puny 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.”
“Come, spur away, I have no patience for a longer stay, But must go down And leave the chargeable noise of this great town. I will the country see, Where old simplicity, Though hid in grey, Doth look more gay Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad: Farewell, you city wits, that are Almost at civil war; 'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad. More of my days I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise; Or to make sport For some slight puny 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.”