 | Divine poems
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Eleg. 12.
My tongue? the tongues of Angels, are too faint
T'expresse the causes of my just complaint;
See, how the pale-fac'd sucklings roare for food,
And from their milkles mothers brests, draw blood:
Children surcease their serious toyes, and plead
With trickling teares, Ah mothers, give us bread:
Such goodly Barnes, and not one graine of corne?
Why did the sword escape's? Why were we borne
To be devour'd and pin'd with famine? save us:
With quicke reliefe, or take the lives, you gave us:
They cryde for bread, that scarce had breath to cry,
And wanting meanes to live, found meanes to dye.
| Divine poems
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