 | Divine poems
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Eleg. 22.
You noysome weeds, that lift your crests so high,
When better plants, for want of moysture die?
Thinke you to flourish ever? and (unspide)
To shoot the flowers of your fruitlesse pride?
If plants be cropt, because their fruits are small,
Thinke you to thrive, that beare no fruit at all?
Looke downe (great God) & from their places teare
These weeds, that suck the juice, shold make us bear
Vndew'd with showers, let them see no Sun,
But feel those frosts, that thy poor plāts have done.
O clense thy Garden, that the world may know
Wee are the seeds, that thy right hand did sow.
| Divine poems
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