Zaccheus in the sycamore-tree.
Why of strange fruits dost boast, O sycamore?
Of leaves not thine who gave thee such a store?
He who waves to and fro on bough of thine,
A cluster soon will be of the True Vine. R. Wi.
CLXXXIV.
On our crucified Lord naked and bloody.
Th' have left Thee naked, Lord: O that they had!
This garment too I would they had deny'd.
Thee with Thyselfe they have too richly clad,
Opening the purple wardrobe of Thy side.
O never could bee found garments too good
For Thee to weare, but these of Thine own blood.
CLXXXV.
Sampson to his Dalilah.
Could not once blinding me, cruell, suffice?
When first I look't on thee, I lost mine eyes.