For this my brave adventure; no, not they: They come, they go, but leave me there to stay.

Now, my reproacher, I do by all this Show how thou mayst possess thyself of bliss. Thou art worse than a spider, but take hold On Christ the door; thou shalt not be controll'd:

By him do thou the heavenly palace enter; None e'er will chide thee for thy brave adventure.

Approach thou then unto the very throne;

Thy way and works do also darkly tell How some men go to heaven, and some te hell.

Thou art my monitor, and I am a fool:
They may learn that to spiders go to school.

OF THE MOLE IN THE GROUND. THE mole's a creature very smooth and sleek;

thine own.

Nor saint nor angel will thee stop or stay,
But rather tumble blocks out of the way.
My venom stops not me; let not thy vice
Stop thee; possess thyself of paradise.

Go on, I say, although thou be a sinner,
Learn to be bold in faith of me, a spinner.
This is the way true glories to possess,
And to enjoy what no man can express.

Sometimes I find the palace door up-lockt,
And so my entrance thither has up-blockt;
But am I daunted? No, I here and there
Do feel and search; and so if anywhere,
At any chink or crevice, find my way,
I crowd, I press for passage, make no stay;
And so thro' difficulty I attain

The palace, yea, the throne, where princes reign.

I crowd, sometimes, as if I'd burst in sunder. And art thou crush'd with striving? Do not wonder.

Some scarce get in; and yet indeed they enter. Knock, for they nothing have that nothing

venture.

Nor will the King himself throw dirt on thee, As thou hast cast reproaches upon me. He will not hate thee, O thou foul backslider! As thou didst me because I am a spider.

Now to conclude: since I much doctrine bring,

Slight me no more, call me not ugly thing.
God wisdom hath unto the pismire given,
And spiders may teach men the way to heaven.

SINNER.

Well, my good spider, I my errors see;
I was a fool for railing so at thee:
Thy nature, venom, and thy fearful hue

But show what sinners are and what they do.

stick;

So's he who counts this world his greatest gains, Yet nothing gets but labour for his pains. Earth's the mole's element; she can't abide To be above ground, dirt-heaps are her pride, And he is like her who the worldling plays; He imitates her in her works and ways.

Poor silly mole! that thou shouldst love to be Where thou nor sun, nor moon, nor stars canst

see;

But oh how silly's he who doth not care,
So he gets earth, to have of heav'n a share!

OF THE CUCKOO.

THOU booby! say'st thou nothing but Cuckoo?
The robin and the wren can thee outdo:
They to us play through their little throats,
Not one, but sundry pretty tuneful notes.
But thou hast fellows: some like thee can do
Little but suck our eggs and sing Cuckoo.

Thy notes do not first welcome in our spring, Nor dost thou its first tokens to us bring: Birds less than thee by far, like prophets, do Tell us 'tis coming, tho' not by Cuckoo.

Nor dost thou summer have away with thee, Though thou a yawling, bawling cuckoo be; When thou dost cease among us to appear, Then doth our harvest bravely crown our year. But thou hast fellows: some like thee can do Little but suck our eggs, and sing Cuckoo.

Since cuckoos forward not our early spring, Nor help with notes to bring our harvest in, And since, while here, she only makes a noise, So pleasing unto none as girls and boys, The formalist we may compare her to, For he doth suck our eggs and sing Cuckoo.

COMPARISON.

OF THE BOY AND THE BUTTERFLY.

BEHOLD, how eager this our little boy Is for this butterfly, as if all joy,

All profits, honours, yea, and lasting pleasures, Were wrapt up in her, or the richest treasures Found in her would be bundled up together, When all her all is lighter than a feather.

He halloos, runs, and cries out, Here, boys,
here!

Nor doth he brambles or the nettles fear:
He stumbles at the molehills; up he gets,
And runs again, as one bereft of wits;
And all his labour and this large outery
Is only for a silly butterfly.

COMPARISON.

This little boy an emblem is of those Whose hearts are wholly at the world's dispose. The butterfly doth represent to me

The world's best things at best but fading be:
All are but painted nothings and false joys,
Like this poor butterfly to these our boys,
His running through nettles, thorns and briers
To gratify his boyish, fond desires,
His tumbling over molehills to attain
His end-namely, his butterfly to gain—
Doth plainly show what hazards some men run
To get what will be lost as soon as won.
Men seem in choice than children far more wise,
Because they run not after butterflies,
When yet, alas! for what are empty toys
They follow children, like to beardless boys.

OF THE FLY AT THE CANDLE. WHAT ails this fly, thus desperately to enter A combat with the candle? Will she venture To clash at light? Away, thou silly fly! Thus doing thou wilt burn thy wings and die.

But 'tis a folly here advice to give; She'll kill the candle, or she will not live. Slap, says she, at it: then she makes retreat, So wheels about and does her blows repeat.

Nor doth the candle let her quite escape, But gives some little check unto the ape, Throws up her nimble heels, and down she falls, Where she lies sprawling and for succour calls.

When she recovers, up she gets again, And at the candle comes with might and main; But now behold, the candle takes the fly, And holds her till she doth by burnings die.

This candle is an emblem of that light Our Gospel gives in this our darksome night: The fly a lively picture is of those That hate and do this Gospel light oppose. At last the Gospel doth become their snareDoth the with burning hands in pieces tear.

ON THE RISING OF THE SUN. Look, look! Brave Sol doth peep up from beneath,

Shows us his golden face, doth on us breathe;
Yea, he doth compass us around with glories,
Whilst he ascends up to his highest stories,
Where he his banner over us displays,
And gives us light to see our works and ways.

Nor are we now, as at the peep of light,
To question, Is it day or is it night?
The night is gone, the shadows fled away,
And now we are most certain that 'tis day.

And thus it is when Jesus shows his face, And doth assure us of his love and grace.

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 each would hang there till it ripe should be! But most of all in beauty would abound If every one should then be truly sound.

But we, alas! do commonly behold Blooms fall apace if mornings be but cold. They, too, which hang till they young apples

are,

By blazing winds and vermin take despair.
Store that do hang while almost ripe, we see,
By blust'ring winds are shaken from the tree;
So that of many only some there be
That grow and thrive to full maturity.

COMPARISON.

This tree a perfect emblem is of those Which do the garden of the Lord compose.

Its blasted blooms are motions unto good, Which chill affections do nip in the bud.

Those little apples which yet blasted are Show some good purposes-no good fruit bear. Those spoil'd 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

Show good works have by trials spoiled been. Those that abide while ripe upon the tree Show 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 show

There flow from much appearance works but few.

Thy case is so deplorable and bad Thou shunn'st to think on't lest thou shouldst be mad;

Thou art beset with mischiefs every way;
The gallows groaneth for thee every day.

Wherefore, I prithee, thief, thy theft forbear;
Consult thy safety, prithee have a care;
If once thy head be got within the noose,
"Twill be too late a longer life to choose.

As to the penitent thou readest of, What's that to them who at repentance scoff? Nor is that grace at thy command or pow'r, That thou shouldst put it off to the last hour.

I prithee, thief, think on't and turn betime; Few go to life who do the gallows climb.

UPON THE THIEF.

THE thief, when he doth steal, thinks he doth gain,

Yet then the greatest loss he doth sustain. Come, thief, tell me thy gains, but do not falter. When summ'd, what comes it to more than the halter?

Perhaps thou'lt say, The halter I defy;
So thou mayst say, yet by the halter die.
Thou'lt say, Then there's an end; no, prithee,
hold,

He was no friend of thine that thee so told.
Hear thou the word of God: that will thee tell
Without repentance thieves must go to hell.
But should it be as thy false prophet says,
Yet naught but loss doth come by thievish ways.

All honest men will flee thy company; Thou liv'st a rogue, and so a rogue will die; Innocent boldness thou hast none at all; Thy inward thoughts do thee a villain call.

Sometimes, when thou liest warmly on thy bed,

Thou art like one unto the gallows led;
Fear as a constable breaks in upon thee;
Thou art as if the town was up to stone thee.

If hogs do grunt or silly rats do rustle, Thou art in consternation; think'st a bustle By men about the door is made to take thee; And all because good conscience doth forsake thee.

OF THE CHILD WITH THE BIRD ON
THE BUSH.

My little bird, how canst thou sit
And sing amidst so many thorns?
Let me but hold upon thee get,

My love with honour thee adorns.
Thou art at present little worth;
Five farthings none will give for thee;
But prithee, little bird, come forth;
Thou of more value art to me.

'Tis true it is sunshine to-day,

To-morrow birds will have a storm; My pretty one, come thou away;

My bosom then shall keep thee warm.

Thou subject art to cold o' nights,

When darkness is thy covering; At days thy danger's great by kites; How canst thou then sit there and sing?

Thy food is scarce and scanty too;

'Tis worms and trash which thou dost cat: Thy present state I pity do;

Come, I'll provide thee better meat,

I'll feed thee with white bread and milk,
And sugar-plums, if thou them crave;
I'll cover thee with finest silk,

That from the cold I may thee save.

My father's palace shall be thine;

Yea, in it thou shalt sit and sing: My little bird, if thou'lt be mine, The whole year round shall be thy spring

I'll teach thee all the notes at court;
Unthought-of music thou shalt play,
And all that thither do resort

Shall praise thee for it ev'ry day.

I'll keep thee safe from cat and cur,
No manner o' harm shall come to thee;
Yea, I will be thy succourer,

My bosom shall thy cabin be.

But lo, behold, the bird is gone!

These charmings would not make her yield: The child's left at the bush alone,

The bird flies yonder o'er the field.

COMPARISON.

This child of Christ an emblem is,

The birds to sinners I compare; The thorns are like those sins of his Which do surround him ev'rywhere. Her songs, her food, and sunshine day Are emblems of those foolish toys Which to destruction lead the wayThe fruit of worldly, empty joys.

The arguments this child doth choose To draw to him a bird thus wild, Show Christ familiar speech doth use To make to him be reconcil'd.

The bird, in that she takes her wing To speed her from him after all, Shows us vain man loves any thing Much better than the heavenly call.

OF THE ROSE BUSH.

THIS homely bush doth to mine eyes expose A very fair, yea, comely, ruddy rose.

This rose doth always bow its head to me, Saying, Come pluck me, I thy rose will be; Yet offer I to gather rose or bud, Ten to one but the bush will have my blood.

This looks like a trepan or a decoy, To offer, and yet snap who would enjoy; Yea, the more eager on't, the more in danger, Be he the master of it or a stranger.

Bush, why dost thou bear a rose if none must have it?

Why dost expose it, yet claw those that crave it?
Art become freakish, dost the wanton play,
Or doth thy testy humour tend this way?

COMPARISON.

The rose God's Son is, with his ruddy 'ooks; But what's the bush, whose pricks, like tenter

hooks,

Do scratch and claw the finest lady's hands,
Or rend her clothes if she too near it stands?
This bush an emblem is of Adam's race,
Of which Christ came when he his Father's
grace

Commended to us in his crimson blood,
While he in sinners' stead and nature stood.

Thus Adam's race did bear this dainty rose, And doth the same to Adam's race expose; But those of Adam's race which at it catch, Them will the race of Adam claw and scratch.

UPON THE BEGGAR.

HE wants, he asks, he pleads his poverty; They within doors to him an alms deny: He doth repeat and aggravate his grief, But they repulse him, give him 10 relief; He begs; they say, Begone: he will not hear, He coughs and sighs, to show he still is there; They disregard him; he repeats his groans: They still say, Nay; and he himself bemoans; They call him vagrant, and more rugged grow; He cries the shriller, trumpets out his woe. At last, when they perceive he'll take no nay, An alms they give him without more delay.

COMPARISON.

This beggar doth resemble them that pray To God for mercy and will take no nay, But wait, and count that all his hard gainsays Are nothing else but fatherly delays. Then imitate him, praying souls, and cry: There's nothing like to importunity.

UPON THE HORSE AND HIS RIDER. THERE'S one rides very sagely on the road, Showing that he affects the gravest mode; Another rides tantivy or full trot,

To show such gravity he matters not.

Lo, here comes one amain; he rides full speed;

Hedge, ditch, or miry bog he doth not heed; One claws it up-hill without stop or check; Another down, as if he'd break his neck.

Now every horse has his especial guider; Then by his going you may know the rider.

COMPARISON.

Now let us turn our horse into a man, The rider to a spirit, if we can: Then let us by the methods of the guider Tell every horse how he should know his rider.

Some go as men direct, in a right way, Nor are they suffer'd e'er to go astray: As with a bridle they are govern'd well, And so are kept from paths that lead to hell: Now this good man has his especial guider, Then by his going let him know his rider.

Another goes as if he did not care Whether of heav'n or hell he should be heir; The rein, it seems, is laid upon his neck, And he pursues his way without a check: Now this man (too) has his especial guider, And by his going he may know his rider.

Again, some run as if resolved to die, Body and soul, to all eternity;

Good counsel they by no means can abide; They'll have their course whatever them betide:

Now these poor men have their especial guider;

Were they not fools, they soon might know their rider.

There's one makes head against all godli

ness;

Those (too) that do profess it he'll distress; He'll taunt and flout if goodness doth appear, And those that love it he will mock and jeer: Now this man (too) has his especial guider, And by his going he may know his rider.

THE BOY AND WATCHMAKER.

Boy.

THIS watch my father did on me bestow;
A golden one it is, but 'twill not go,
Unless it be at an uncertainty;

But as good none as one to tell a lie.

When 'tis high day my hand will stand at nine.
I think there's no man's watch so bad as mine.
Sometimes 'tis sullen, 'twill not go at all,
And yet 'twas never broke nor had a fall.
WATCHMAKER.

Your watch, tho' it be good, through want of skill

May fail to do according to your will.
Suppose the balance-wheels and spring be good,
And all things else, unless you understood
To manage it as watches ought to be,
Your watch will still be at uncertainty.
Come, tell me do you keep it from the dust,
And wind it duly that it may not rust?
Take heed (too) that you do not strain the
spring.

You must be circumspect in ev'ry thing,

Or else your watch will not exactly go; 'Twill stand, or run too fast, or move too slow.

COMPARISON.

This boy resembles one that's turned from sin

His watch the curious work of grace within:
The Watchmaker is Jesus Christ our Lord;
His counsel, the directions of his word.
Then, convert, if thy heart be out of frame,
Of this Watchmaker learn to mend the same
Do not lay ope thy heart to worldly dust,
Nor let thy graces overgrow with rust;
Be oft renew'd in th' spirit of thy mind,
Or else uncertain thou thy watch will find.

UPON A PENNY LOAF.

THY price one penny is in time of plenty; In famine doubled 'tis from one to twenty; Yea, no man knows what price on thee to set When there is but one penny loaf to get.

COMPARISON.

This loaf's an emblem of the word of GodA thing of low esteem before the rod

Of famine smites the soul with fear of death; But then it is our all, our life, our breath.

ON THE CACKLING OF A HEN.
THE hen, so soon as she an egg doth lay,
Spreads the fame of her doing what she may,
About the yard a cackling she doth go,
To tell what 'twas she at her nest did do.

Just thus it is with some professing men:
If they do aught that's good, they, like our hen
Cannot but cackle on't where'er they go,
And what their right hand doth their left inus!
know.