Thrice and above blest (my souls halfe!) art thou In thy though last yet better vowe, Canst leave the Cyttye with exchange to see The Country’s sweet simplicitie, And to knowe and practise, with intent To growe the sooner innocent, By studdyinge to knowe vertue, and to ayme More at her nature than her name. The last is but the least, the first doth tell Wayes not to live, but to live well. And both are knowne to thee, who now canst live, Led by thy conscience, to give Justice[117] to soon pleas’d Nature, and to showe Wisdome and she togeather goe, And keepe one center: this with that conspires To teach man to confine’s desires; To knowe that riches have their proper stint In the contented minde, not mint; And canst instruct, that those that have the itch Of cravinge more, are never rich. These thinges thou knowst to th’ height, and dost prevent The mange, because thou art content With 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 impart Least thankes to Nature, most to Art. But thou canst tersely live, and satisfie The bellye only, not the eye; Keepinge the barkinge stomache meanly quiet With 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 hast Gott, not so beautifull as chast. By whose warm’d side thou dost securely sleepe, Whilst Love the centinell doth keepe With those deeds done by day, which ne’er affright The silken slumbers in the night; Nor hath the darkenesse power to usher in Feare 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 commend Not 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 discloses Millions of lillyes mixt with roses. Then dreame thou hear’st the lambe with many a bleat Woo’d to come sucke the milkey teate; Whilst Faunus, in the vision, vowes to keepe From ravenouse wolfe the woolley sheepe; With thowsand such enchantinge dreames, which meet To make sleepe not so sound as sweet. Nor can these figures in thy rest endeere, As not to up when chanticleere