 | A New Spring of Divine Poetrie |  |
On an Apprentices Boxe.
The Prentise after all his yearely paines,Filleth his small mouth'd box with Christmas gaines,
Yet though he fill his box unto the brim
Vnlesse he breake it up, whats all to him?
A miser's such a Boxe, thats nothing worth,
Till death doth breake it up, then all comes forth:
Convert good God, or strike with some disease,
Breake up such small mouth'd boxes, Lord as these.
| A New Spring of Divine Poetrie | |