Chapter 8 Leisure

They talk of time, and of times galling yoke, That like a millstone on mans mind doth press, Which only works and business can redress: Of divine Leisure such foul lies are spoken, Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke. But might I, fed with silent meditation, Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation-- Improbus Labor, which my spirits hath broke-- Id drink of times rich cup, and never surf: Fling in more days than went to make the gem That crowned white top of Methusalem: Yea on my weak neck take, and never forfeit, Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky, The heaven-sweet burthen of eternity.

Deus Nobis H?c Otia Fecit.