To an eternall place,
Where shels nor finest golds’ worth ought,
Where noughts’ worth ought but Grace.
This Coyne the Indians know not of,
Who knowes how soone they may?
The English knowing, prize it not,
But fling’t like drosse away.
To an eternall place,
Where shels nor finest golds’ worth ought,
Where noughts’ worth ought but Grace.
This Coyne the Indians know not of,
Who knowes how soone they may?
The English knowing, prize it not,
But fling’t like drosse away.