A FAYRE AND HAPPY MILK-MAID.
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.
Sir Thomas Overbury, 1581–1613.