Free from sad cares, that rich mens hearts devowre.

This all his care, this all his whole indevour,
To this his minde and senses he doth bend,
How he may flow in quiets matchles treasour,
Content with any food that God doth send; 140
And how his limbs, resolv'd through idle leisour,
Unto sweete sleepe he may securely lend,
In some coole shadow from the scorching heat,
The whiles his flock their chawed cuds do eate.

O Flocks, O Faunes, and O ye pleasaunt Springs 145
Of Tempe, where the countrey nymphs are rife,
Through whose not costly care each shepheard sings
As merrie notes upon his rusticke fife
As that Ascraean bard*, whose fame now rings
Through the wide world, and leads as ioyfull life; 150
Free from all troubles and from worldly toyle,
In which fond men doe all their dayes turmoyle.
[* I.e. Hesiod]

In such delights whilst thus his carelesse time
This shepheard drives, upleaning on his batt*,
And on shrill reedes chaunting his rustick rime, 155
Hyperion, throwing foorth his beames full hott,
Into the highest top of heaven gan clime,
And the world parting by an equall lott,
Did shed his whirling flames on either side,
As the great Ocean doth himselfe divide. 160
[* _Batt_, stick]