In drowsie fit he findes: of nothing he takes keepe.
And more, to lulle him in his slumber soft, xli
A trickling streame from high rocke tumbling downe
And euer-drizling[53] raine vpon the loft,
Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne
Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swowne:
No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes,
As still are wont t’annoy the walled towne,
Might there be heard: but carelesse Quiet lyes,
Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enemyes.