I croud sometimes, as if I'd burst in sunder;
And art thou crush'd with striving; do not wonder.
Some scarce get in, and yet indeed they enter;
Knock! for they nothing have, that nothing venture.

Nor will the King himself throw dirt on thee,
As thou hast cast reproaches upon me.
He will not hate thee; O thou foul backslider !
As thou didst me, because I am a Spider.

Now, to conclude : Since I much doctrine bring, Slight me no more, call ine not ugly thing. God wisdom hath unto the Pismire given, And Spiders may teach Men the way to heaven.


Well, my good Spider, I my errors see;
I was a fool for railing so at thee.
Thy nature, venom, and thy fearful hue,
Both shew what sinners are, and what they do.

Thy way, and works do also darkly tell,
How some Men go to heaven, and some to hell,
Thou art my monitor, I am a fool;
They may learn, that to Spiders go to school.



But all this while, where's he whose golden rays Drives night away, and beautifies our days? Where's be whose goodly face does warm and heal, And shew us what the darksome nights conceal ? Where's he that thaws our ice, drives cold away! Let's have bim, or we care not for the day.

Thus 't is with those who are possest of grace, There's nought to them like their Redeemer's face.

THE MOLE IN THE GROUND. The Mole's a creature very smooth and sleek;


She digs i' th' dirt, but 't will not on her stick.
So's he who courts this world, his greatest gains,
Yet nothing gets but labour for bis pains.
Earth's the Mole's element, she can't abide
To be above ground, dirt heaps are her pride :
And he is like her, who the worldling plays,
He imitates her in her works and ways.

Poor silly Mole! that thou shouldst love to be,
Where thou nor sun, por moon, nor stars canst see!
But ho, how silly's he who doth not care,
So he gets earth, to have of heav'n a share!

Thou booby, say’st thou nothing but Cuckoo ?
The robin and the wren can thee out-do.
They to us play through their little throats ;
Not one, but sundry pretty tuneful votes.

But thou hast fellows; some, like thee, can do Little but suck our eggs, and sing Cuckoo.

Thy notes do not first welcome in our spring, Nor dost thou it's first tokens to us bring. Birds less than thee by far, like prophets, do Tell us 't is coming, thongh not by Cuckoo.

Nor dost thou summer have away with thee, Though thou a yawling, bawling Cuckoo be. When thou dost cease among us to appear, Then doth our harvest bravely crown our year.

But thou hast fellows; some, like thee, can do Little but suck our eggs, and sing Cuckoo.

Since Cuckoos forward not our early spring,
Nor help with notes to bring our harvest in:
Aud since, while here, she only makes a noise,
So pleasing upto none as girls and boys,
The Formalist we may compare her to,
For he doth suck our eggs, and sing Cuckoo.


Behold how eager this our little Boy
Is for this Butterfly, as if all joy,
All profits, honours, yea, and lasting pleasures,
Were w rapt up in her, or the richest treasures,
Found in her, would be bundled up together,
When all her all is lighter than a feather.

He halloos, runs, and cries out, Here, boys, here!
Nor doth he brambles or the nettles fear :
He stumbles at the mole-bills, up he gets,
And runs again, as one bereft' of wits;
And all his labour, and this large out-cry,
Is only for a silly Butterfly.


This little boy an emblem is of those
Whose hearts are wholly at the world's dispose;
The Butterfly doth represent to me,
The world's best things at best but fading be.
All are but painted nothings and false joys,
Like this poor Butterfly to these our Boys.

His running through netiles, thorns, and briers,
To gratify his boyish fond desires;
His tumbling over mole-bills to attain
His end, namely, his Butterfly to gain;
Doth plainly shew what hazards soine men run,
To get what will be lost as soon as won.
Men seem in choice than children far more wise,
Because they run not after Butterflies :
Wben, yet, alas! for what are einpty toys,
They follow children, like to beardless Boys,

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What ails this Fly, thus desp’rately to enter
A combat with the Candle? Will she veuture

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To clash at light? Away, thoú silly Fly; 1
Thus doing, thou wilt burn thy wings and die.

But 'tis a folly, her advice to give,
She'll kill the Candle, or she will not live.
Slap, says she, at it: then she makes retreat,
So wheels about, and doth her blows repeat.

Nor doth the Candle let her quite escape,
But gives some little check outo the ape :
Throws up her nimble beels and down she falls,
Where she lies sprawling, and for succour calls.

When she recovers, up she gets again,
Aud at the Candle comes with might and main.
But now, behold, the Candle takes the Fly,
Aud holds her, till she doth by burning die.


This Candle is an emblem of that light
Our Gospel gives in this our darksome night.
The Fly a lively picture is of those
That hate, and do this Gospel-light oppose.
At last the Gospel doth become their snare,
Doth them with burning hands in pieces tear.


Look, look, brave Sol doth peep op from beneath,
Shews us his golden face, doth on us breathe;
Yea, be doth compass us around with glories,
Whilst he ascends up to the highest stories.
Where he bis banner over us displays,
And gives us light to see our works and ways.
Nor are we now as at the peep of light,

To question, Is it day, or is it night?
The night is gone, the shadow's fled away,
And now we are most certain that 't is day.

And thus it is when Jesus shews bis face, 10, 11 And doth assure us of his love and grace. !

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it see,


A.comely sight indeed it is to see
A world of blossoms on an Apple-tree:
Yet far more comely would this tree appear,
If all its dainty blooms young Apples were.
But how much more might one upon
If all would hang there till they ripe should be.
But most of all in beauty t'would abound,
If ev'ry one should then be truly sound.

But we, alas! do commonly behold
Blooms fall apace, if mornings be but cold.
They (too) which hang till they young Apples are,
By blasting winds, and vermin take despair.
Store that do hang, while almost ripe, we see
By blust'ring winds are shaken from the tree.
So that of many, only some there be,
That grow and thrive to full maturity.


This Tree a perfect emblem is of those Which do the garden of the Lord compose; Its blasted Blooms are motions unto good, Which chill affections do nip in the bud.

Those little Apples which yet blasted are,
Shew, some good purposes no good fruits bear.
Those spoil'd by vermin are to let us see,
How good attempts by bad thoughts ruin'd be.
Those wbich the wiod blows down while they

are green,
Shew good works have by trials spoiled been.
Those that abide, wbile ripe, upon the tree,
Shew, in a good man, some ripe fruit will be.

Behold then, how abortive some fruits are,
Which at the first most promising appear.
The frost, the wind, the worm, with time doth shew,
There flow from much appearance works but few,

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