O Frutefull Garden.
O FRUTEFULL garden, and yet never tilde,
Box full of Treasure yet by noe man filde.
O thou which haste, made him that first made thee;
O neare of kinne to all the Trinetie;
5O Pallace where the kinge of all, and more;
Went in, and out, yet never opened doore;
Whose flesh is purer, than an others sperrit
Reache him our Prayers, and reach us down his merrit;