And thus it is when Jesus shews his face,

And doth assure us of his love and grace.

THE PROMISING FRUITFULNESS OF A TREE.
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 it see,
If all would hang there till they ripe should be.
But most of all in beauty 'twould abound,
If every 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 arc,
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.

COMPARISON

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 which the wind blows down while they are green,

Shew good works have by trials spoiled been.

Those that abide, while 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.

THE THIEF.

THE Thief, when he doth steal, thinks he doth gain; Yet then the greatest loss he doth sustain.

Come, Thief, tell me thy gains, but do not falter; When summed, what comes it to more than the halter?

Perhaps thou'lt say, The halter, I defy ;

So thou may'st say, yet by the halter die.
Thou'lt say, Then there's an end: No, pr'ithee, hold;
He was no friend of thine that thee so told.

Hear thou the word of God; that will thee tell,
Without repentance Thieves must go to hell.
But should it be as thy false prophet says,
Yet nought but loss doth come by thievish ways.

All honest men will flee thy company,

Thou livest a rogue, and so a rogue will die.
Innocent boldness thou hast none at all,
Thy inward thoughts do thee a villain call.

Sometimes, when thou ly'st warmly in thy bed,
Thou art like one unto the gallows led;
Fear, as a Constable, breaks in upon thee,
Thou art as if the town was up to stone thee.

If hogs do grunt, or silly rats do rustle,
Thou art in consternation; think'st a bustle
By men about the door is made to take thee;
And all because good conscience doth forsake thee.

Thy case is so deplorable and bad,

Thou shunn'st to think on't, lest thou shouldst be mad:

Thou art beset with mischiefs every way,

The gallows groaneth for thee every day.

Wherefore, I pr'ithee, Thief, thy theft forbear;

Consult thy safety; pr'ithee have a care.

LET

If once thy head be got within the noose,
"Twill be too late a longer life to choose.
As to the penitent thou readest of,

What's that to them who at repentance scoff?
Nor is that grace at thy command or power,
That thou shouldst put it off till the last hour.

I pr'ithee Thief, think on't, and turn betime:
Few go to life who do the gallows climb.

THE CHILD WITH THE BIRD ON THE BUSH.

My little Bird, how canst thou sit,
And sing amidst so many thorns?

Let me but hold upon thee get,

My love with honour thee adorns.

Thou art at present little worth;

Five farthings none will give for thee: But, prithee little bird, come forth, Thou of more value art to me.

'Tis true, it is sun-shine to day,

To morrow birds will have a storm

My pretty one come thou away,

My bosom then shall keep thee warm. Thou subject art to cold o' nights,

When darkness is thy covering;

At day thy danger's great by kites,

How canst thou then sit there and sing?

Thy food is scarce and scanty too,

'Tis worms and trash which thou dost eat, Thy present state I pity do,

Come, I'll provide thee better meat.

I'll feed thee with white bread and milk,
And sugar-plums if thou them crave;

I'll cover thee with finest silk,

That from the cold I may thee save