Of men than beasts: But O! th' exceeding grace

Of Highest God that loves his creatures so,

And all his workes with mercy doth embrace,

That blessed Angels he sends to and fro,

To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe!

How oft do they their silver bowers leave

To come to succour us that succour want!

How oft do they with golden pineons cleave

The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant,

Against fowle feends to ayd us militant!