The Country Life

Thrice and above blest (my souls halfe!) art thouIn thy though last yet better vowe,Canst leave the Cyttye with exchange to seeThe Country’s sweet simplicitie,And to knowe and practise, with intentTo growe the sooner innocent,By studdyinge to knowe vertue, and to aymeMore at her nature than her name.The last is but the least, the first doth tellWayes not to live, but to live well.And both are knowne to thee, who now canst live,Led by thy conscience, to giveJustice to soon pleas’d Nature, and to showeWisdome and she togeather goe,And keepe one center: this with that conspiresTo teach man to confine’s desires;To knowe that riches have their proper stintIn the contented minde, not mint;And canst instruct, that those that have the itchOf cravinge more, are never rich.These thinges thou knowst to th’ height, and dost preventThe mange, because thou art contentWith that Heaven gave thee with a sparinge hand,More blessed in thy brest than land,To keepe but Nature even and upright,To quench not cocker appetite.The first is Nature’s end; this doth impartLeast thankes to Nature, most to Art.But thou canst tersely live, and satisfieThe bellye only, not the eye;Keepinge the barkinge stomache meanly quietWith a neat yet needfull dyett.But that which most creates thy happy life,Is the fruition of a wife,Whom (starres consentinge with thy fate) thou hastGott, not so beautifull as chast.By whose warm’d side thou dost securely sleepe,Whilst Love the centinell doth keepeWith those deeds done by day, which ne’er affrightThe silken slumbers in the night;Nor hath the darkenesse power to usher inFeare to those sheets that knowe no sinne:But still thy wife, by chast intention led,Gives thee each night a maidenhead.For where pure thoughts are led by godly feare,Trew love, not lust at all, comes there;And in that sense the chaster thoughts commendNot halfe so much the act as end:That, what with dreams in sleepe of rurall blisse,Night growes farre shorter than shee is.The damaske meddowes, and the crawlinge streames,Sweeten, and make soft thy dreams.The purlinge springes, groves, birdes, and well-weav’d bowers,With fields enamelled with flowers,Present thee shapes, whilst phantasye disclosesMillions of lillyes mixt with roses.Then dreame thou hear’st the lambe with many a bleatWoo’d to come sucke the milkey teate;Whilst Faunus, in the vision, vowes to keepeFrom ravenouse wolfe the woolley sheepe;With thowsand such enchantinge dreames, which meetTo make sleepe not so sound as sweet.Nor can these figures in thy rest endeere,As not to up when chanticleereSpeaks the last watch, but with the dawne dost riseTo worke, but first to sacrifice:Makinge thy peace with Heaven for some late fault,With holy meale and cracklinge salt.That done, thy painfull thumbe this sentence tells us,God for our labour all thinges sells us.Nor are thy daylye and devout affayresAttended with those desperate caresTh’ industriouse marchant hath, who for to findeGold, runneth to the furthest Inde,And home againe tortur’d with fear doth hye,Untaught to suffer povertye.But you at home blest with securest ease,Sitt’st and beleev’st that there are seas,And watrye dangers; but thy better hapBut sees these thinges within thy mapp,And viewinge them with a more safe survaye,Makst easy Feare unto thee say,A heart thrice wall’d with oake and brass that manHad, first durst plough the ocean.But thou at home, without or tyde or gale,Canst in thy mapp securely sayle,Viewinge the parted countryes, and so guesseBy their shades their substances;And from their compasse borrowing advise,Buy’st travayle at the lowest price.Nor are thy eares so seald but thou canst heareFar more with wonder than with feare.