The very day that turn’d she was
To Stincking heaps, ’fore night.
How many millions now alive,
Within few yeeres shall rot?
O blest that Soule, whose portion is
That Rocke that changeth not.
The very day that turn’d she was
To Stincking heaps, ’fore night.
How many millions now alive,
Within few yeeres shall rot?
O blest that Soule, whose portion is
That Rocke that changeth not.