 | A New Spring of Divine Poetrie |  |
A Meditation on a Weathercocke.
See how the trembling Weathercocke can findNoe setled place, but turnes with every wind,
If blustring Zephyr blowes and gives a checke,
How soon's this cocke made pliant to his becke,
If Boreas gets the day, twill change its side,
And turne in spite of bragging Zephyrs pride:
Thus temporizers turne at every puffe,
And yet for sooth they thinke they're good enough,
If stand, they stand: if he that seemes to be
The greatest turne, they turne as fast as he,
I wonder at such wav'ring feathers, did I
So often turne t'would make me wondrous giddy.
Lord let that wind that blowes upon thy flocke,
Turne me, and make me Lord thy weather cocke.
| A New Spring of Divine Poetrie | |