Continual toile, and labour, is not beste:
But sometimes cease, and rest thy wearie bones,
The daie to worke, the nighte was made to reste,
And studentes must have pastimes for the nones:
Sometime the Lute, the Chesse, or Bowe by fittes,
For overmuch, dothe dull the finest wittes.
For lacke of reste, the feilde dothe barren growe,
The winter coulde, not all the yeare doth raigne:
And dailie bent, doth weake the strongest bowe:
Yea our delightes still us'd, wee doe disdaine.
Then rest by fittes, amongste your great affaires,
But not too muche, leste sloathe dothe set her snares.