Is a country wench, that is so far from making herself beautiful by art, that one look of hers is able to put all face physic out of countenance.  She knows a fair look is but a dumb orator to commend virtue, therefore minds it not.  All her excellences stand in her so silently, as if they had stolen upon her without her knowledge.  The lining of her apparel (which is herself) is far better than outsides of tissue; for though she be not arrayed in the spoil of the silk-worm, she is decked in innocency, a far better wearing.  She doth not, with lying long a-bed, spoil both her complexion and conditions; Nature hath taught her too immoderate sleep is rust to the soul; she rises therefore with chanticleer, her dame’s cock, and at night makes lamb her curfew.  In milking a cow and straining the teats through her fingers, it seems that so sweet a milk-press makes the milk the whiter or sweeter; for never came almond glove or aromatic ointment off her palm to taint it.  The golden ears of corn fall and kiss her feet when she reaps them, as if they wished to be bound and led prisoners by the same hand that felled them.  Her breath is her own, which scents all the year long of June, like a new made haycock.  She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with pity; and when winter’s evenings fall early (sitting at her merry wheel) she sings a defiance to the giddy wheel of fortune.  She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seems ignorance will not suffer her to do ill, because her mind is to do well.  She bestows her year’s wages at next fair; and, in choosing her garments, counts no bravery in the world like decency.  The garden and beehive are all her physic and chirurgery, and she lives the longer for it.  She dares go alone and unfold sheep in the night, and fears no manner of ill because she means 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 palled with ensuing idle cogitations.  Lastly, her dreams are so chaste that she dare tell them:  only a Friday’s dream is all her superstition; that she conceals for fear of anger.  Thus lives she, and all her care is that she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding-sheet.

AN ARRANT HORSE-COURSER

Hath the trick to blow up horse-flesh, as the butcher doth veal, which shall wash out again in twice riding betwixt Waltham and London.  The trade of spur-making had decayed long since, but for this ungodly tireman.  He is cursed all over the four ancient highways of England; none but the blind men that sell switches in the road are beholding to him.  His stable is filled with so many diseases, one would think most part about Smithfield was an hospital for horses, or a slaughter-house of the common hunt.  Let him furnish you with a hackney, it is as much as if the