XXVI. Upon 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 then none worm-eaten could there be found.
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 Vermine take despair.
Store that do hang, while almost ripe, we see
By blustring Winds are shaken from the Tree.
So that of many only some there be,
That grow till they come to Maturity.
Comparison.
This Tree a perfect Emblem is of those,
Which God doth plant, which in his Garden grows.
It's 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 bare.
Those spoilt 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 Tryal spoyled 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 flows from much Appearance, works but few.
