Behold, there is a Raine-bow in the Cloud,
Wherein, a trustfull promise may be found,
That, quite, your little-worlds, shall not be drown'd.
The Sun-shine, through the foggy mists appeare,
The lowring Skie, begins againe to cleare;
And, though the Tempest, yet, your eyes affright,
Faire weather may befall you, long ere night.
Such comfort speakes our Emblem, unto those,
Whom stormie Persecution doth enclose;
And, comforts him, that's for the present sad,