Why, Madam, will ye longer weep,
When as your Baby's lull'd asleep?
And (pretty Child) feeles now no more
Those paines it lately felt before.
All now is silent; groanes are fled:
Your Child lyes still, yet is not dead:
But rather like a flower hid here
To spring againe another yeare.

God's evident, and may be said to be
Present with just men, to the veritie:
But with the wicked if He doth comply,
'Tis (as S. Bernard saith) but seemingly.

Feacie (some say) doth wash her clothes i'th'Lie
That sharply trickles from her either eye.
The Laundresses, They envie her good-luck,
Who can with so small charges drive the buck.
What needs she fire and ashes to consume,
Who can scoure Linnens with her own salt reeume?

The longer thred of life we spin,
The more occasion still to sin.

By so much, vertue is the lesse,
By how much, neere to singlenesse.

Shift now has cast his clothes: got all things new;
Save but his hat, and that he cannot mew.

She wept upon her cheeks, and weeping so,
She seem'd to quench loves fires that there did glow.

Of all our parts, the eyes expresse
The sweetest kind of bashfulnesse.

Love bade me aske a gift,
And I no more did move,
But this, that I might shift
Still with my clothes, my Love:
That favour granted was;
Since which, though I love many,
Yet so it comes to passe,
That long I love not any.

The strength of Baptisme, that's within;
It saves the soule, by drowning sin.