A Fayre and Happy Milke-Mayd by John Webster Lyrics
A fayre and happy Milke-Mayd,
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 fayre looke is but a dumbe Orator to commend virtue, therefore mindes it not. All her excellencies stand in her so silently, as if they had stolne upon her without her knowledge. The lining of her apparel (which is her selfe) is farre better then outsides of Tissew: for though shee bee not arrayed in the spoyle of the Silke-worme, shee is deckt in innocence, a farre better wearing. She doth not, with lying long a bed, spoyle both her Complexion and Conditions; nature hath taught her too Immoderate sleepe is rust to the soule: she rises therefore with Chaunticleare, her Dames Cocke; and at night makes the Lambe her Courfew. In milking a Cow, and strayning the Teates through her fingers, it seems that so sweet a Milke-press makes the Milke the whiter, or sweeter; for never came Almond Glove or Aromatique Oyntment on her Palme to taynt it. The golden eares of Corne fall and kisse her feete when shee reapes them, as if they wisht to bee bound and led prisoners by the same hand fell’d them. Her breath is her owne, which sents all the yeere long of June, like a new made Hay-cocke. She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with pittie: and when winter evenings fall early (sitting at her merry wheele) she sings a defiance to the giddy Wheele of Fortune. Shee doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seemes ignorance will not suffer her to doe ill, being her minde is to do well. She bestowes her yeeres wages at next Faire; and in choosing her Garments, counts no bravery i’th’worlde like decency. The Garden and Bee-hive are all her Physicke and Chyrurgery, and she lives the longer for’t. She dare goe alone, and unfold sheepe i’th’night, and feares no manner of ill, because she means 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 insuing idle cogitations. Lastly, her dreames are so chaste, that she dare tell them: only a Frydayes dreame is all her superstition: that shee conceales for feare of anger. Thus lives she, and all her care is, She may dye in the Spring time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding-sheete.
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 fayre looke is but a dumbe Orator to commend virtue, therefore mindes it not. All her excellencies stand in her so silently, as if they had stolne upon her without her knowledge. The lining of her apparel (which is her selfe) is farre better then outsides of Tissew: for though shee bee not arrayed in the spoyle of the Silke-worme, shee is deckt in innocence, a farre better wearing. She doth not, with lying long a bed, spoyle both her Complexion and Conditions; nature hath taught her too Immoderate sleepe is rust to the soule: she rises therefore with Chaunticleare, her Dames Cocke; and at night makes the Lambe her Courfew. In milking a Cow, and strayning the Teates through her fingers, it seems that so sweet a Milke-press makes the Milke the whiter, or sweeter; for never came Almond Glove or Aromatique Oyntment on her Palme to taynt it. The golden eares of Corne fall and kisse her feete when shee reapes them, as if they wisht to bee bound and led prisoners by the same hand fell’d them. Her breath is her owne, which sents all the yeere long of June, like a new made Hay-cocke. She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with pittie: and when winter evenings fall early (sitting at her merry wheele) she sings a defiance to the giddy Wheele of Fortune. Shee doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seemes ignorance will not suffer her to doe ill, being her minde is to do well. She bestowes her yeeres wages at next Faire; and in choosing her Garments, counts no bravery i’th’worlde like decency. The Garden and Bee-hive are all her Physicke and Chyrurgery, and she lives the longer for’t. She dare goe alone, and unfold sheepe i’th’night, and feares no manner of ill, because she means 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 insuing idle cogitations. Lastly, her dreames are so chaste, that she dare tell them: only a Frydayes dreame is all her superstition: that shee conceales for feare of anger. Thus lives she, and all her care is, She may dye in the Spring time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding-sheete.