Old England and Ne7u. 339
But thefe may be beginnings of more woe
Who knows, but this may be my overthrow/
Oh pit}^ me in this fad perturbation,
My plundred Towns, m}- houfes devaftation,
My weeping Virgins and my young men flain;
My wealthy trading fall'n, my dearth of grain.
The feed-times come, but ploughman hath no hope
Becaufe he knows not who fhall inn his Crop:
The poor they want their pa}', their children bread,
Their woful Mothers tears unpittied,
If any pity in thy heart remain.
Or an}^ child-like love thou doft retain.
For my relief, do what there lyes in thee.
And recompence that good I've done to thee/
New England.
Dear Mother ceafe complaints & wipe your eyes, Shake off your duft, chear up, and now arife. You are my Mother Nurfe, and I'^ 3^our flefh. Your funken bowels gladly would refrefh. Your griefs I pity, but foon hope to fee. Out of your troubles much good fruit to be;
d Who knows, the worft, the beft may overthrow ; Religion, Gofpell, here lies at the flake, Pray now dear child, for facred Zions fake,
^ ravilht. f For my relief now ufe thy utmoft skill,
And recompence me good, for all my ill. ? nurfe, I once.
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