Is a countrey wench, that is so farre from making her selfe beautifull
by art, that one looke of hers is able to put _all face physicke_ out of
countenance. She knowes a faire looke is but a _dumbe orator_ to commend
virtue, therefore minds it not. All her excellencies stand in her so
silently, as if they had stolne upon her without her knowledge. The
lining of her apparall (which is her selfe) is farre better than
outsides of tisseu; for though she be not arraied in the spoile of the
silke-worme, shee is deckt in _innocency_, a farre better wearing. She
doth not, with lying long abed, spoile both her _complexion_ and
_conditions_. Nature hath taught her too immoderate sleepe is rust to
the soule; she rises, therefore, with _chaunticleare_, her dame’s cock,
and at night makes the _lambe_ her _curfew_. In milking a cow,
a-straining the _teats_ through her fingers, it seems that so sweete a
milk-presse makes the milk the whiter or sweeter; for never came _almond
glove_, or _aromatique oyntment_ on her palme to taint it. The golden
eares of corne fall and kisse her feet when she reapes them, as if they
wisht to be bound, and led prisoners by the same hand that fell’d them.
Her breath is her own, which scents all the yeare long of _June_, like a
new-made hay-cocke. She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart
soft with pity; and when winter evenings fall early (sitting at her mery
wheele) she sings a defiance to the giddy _wheele of fortune_. She doth
all things with so sweet a grace, it seems _ignorance_ will not suffer
her to do ill, being her mind is to doe well. She bestowes her yeare’s
wages at next faire; and in chusing her garments, counts no bravery i’
the world like decency. The _garden_ and _bee-hive_ are all her physick
and chyrurgerye, and shee lives the longer for’t. She dares goe alone,
and unfold sheepe i’ the night, and feares no manner of ill, because she
meanes none; yet to say truth, she is never alone, for she is still
accompanied with _old songs_, _honest thoughts_, and _prayers_, but
short ones; yet they have their efficacy, in that they are not pauled
with ensuing idle cogitations. Lastly: her dreams are so chaste, that
she dare tell them; only a Fridaie’s dream is all her _superstition_:
that shee conceales for feare of anger. Thus lives she, and all her care
is that she may die in the _spring-time_, to have store of flowers
stucke upon her winding-sheet.