They talk of time, and of times galling yoke,

That like a millstone on mans mind doth press,

Which only works and business can redress:

Of divine Leisure such foul lies are spoke,

Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke.

But might I, fed with silent meditation,

Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation--

Improbus Labor, which my spirits hath broke--

Id drink of times rich cup, and never surfeit:

Fling in more days than went to make the gem

That crownd white top of Methusalem:

Yea on my weak neck take, and never forfeit,

Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky,

The heaven-sweet burthen of eternity.

Deus Nobis H?c Otia Fecit.

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