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Three Decads of Divine Meditations

Whereof each one containeth three parts. 1. A History. 2. An Allegory. 3. A Prayer. With a commendation of the private Countrey life. By Alexander Rosse

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 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
  
The commendations of the priuate Country Life.


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The commendations of the priuate Country Life.

O hills and dales, woods, groues, and christall springs,
The best delight of transitory things.
I more esteeme your Tempe shades and flowers,
Thē Princes Courts, proud townes, & lofty towres.
Heere may the minde talke freely with her Maker.
Shee needes no helpe of Priest or Romish baker.
To bake or make him of a piece of bread,
His body is in Heauen, so saith our Creede.
His spirit euery where that may be seene,
In euery bush, in euery medow greene.
Here may the minde with admiration,
Contemplate euery constellation.
That Heauenly hoste of Starres, theire restlesse motion,
There light, and might vpon the Earth and Ocean.
And higher yet she soares with faiths swift wings,
Aboue all Heauens vnto the King of Kings.
Shee heares not Trumpets sound, nor Cannons roare,
Shee feares not Neptune beating on the shoare.
For those the birds in Parti-coulerd cotes,
Sound in her eares variety of notes.
She scornes the Courtiers life, his sweete perfumes
He clothes, his curled hayre, his shaking plumes,

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To see the medowes spring, the Riuers glide,
Doe more delight her then their painted pride.
Shee needes not walls and forts for her defence,
But shades of trees and peace of conscience.
Heere is not to be found that misery,
Which raignes in Citties, I meane Vsery.
No enuy heere, no wrongs, no vanity,
No treason, slander, pride, nor flattety.
But innocence, truth, and a quiet life,
Are found in woods; in Citties care and strife.
Sound bodies men haue here contented minds,
Which seldome in great Citties any findes.
Heere no corruption doth infect the aire,
Men are content with vnbought simple fare.
With many sinnes great Citties still are tainted,
With many cares rich Marchants are tormented.
But here the harmelesse, carelesse merry Swaine,
Sits singing, whistling, piping on his cane.
By day he leades and guides his silent sheepe,
By night no cares disturbs his quiet sleepe.
Thus liu'd our Fathers in the golden age,
They spent in woods and caues their pilgrimage.