Poore nation, whose sweet sap and juice
Our eyens have purloin'd, and left you drie:
Whose streams we got by the Apostles' sluce,
And use in baptisme, while ye pine and die:
Who by not keeping once, became a debter;
And now by keeping lose the letter:
Oh that my prayers! mine, alas!
Oh that some Angel might a trumpet sound:
At which the Church falling upon her face
Should crie so loud, untill the trump were drown'd,
And by that crie of her deare Lord obtain,
That your sweet sap might come again!
