Ay me! how many perils doe enfold
The righteous man, to make him daily fall.
Who will not mercie unto others show,
How can he mercie ever hope to have?
I was promised on a time
To have reason for my rhyme;
From that time unto this season
I received nor rhyme nor reason.
And more to lull him in his slumber soft,
A trickling stream from high rock tumbling down,
And ever drizzling rain upon the loft,
Mixed with a murmuring wind much like the sound
Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swoon.
No other noise, nor people's troublous cries
As still are wont t' annoy the walled town
Might there be heard; but careless Quiet lies,
Wrapt in eternal silence, far from enemies.