Witnes, gratious heaven, Who, were you not offended at some sinn I have unwittingly comitted, would Send sacred innocence it selfe to pleade How much 'tis iniurd in me, that with zeale Above the love of mothers I have tendred This misinformd man.

Thou art above their Censure, whose darke Spirits Respects but shades of things, and seeming merits; That have no soule, nor reason to their will, But rime as ragged, as a Ganders Quill: Where Pride blowes up the Error, and transfers Their zeale in Tempests, that so wid'ly errs.

It is in zeale of the generall good.

With sence whereof whilest so thy softened spirit Is inly toucht, and humbled with meeke zeale Through meditation of his endlesse merit, 255 Lift up thy mind to th'author of thy weale, And to his soveraine mercie doe appeale; Learne him to love that loved thee so deare, And in thy brest his blessed image beare.