There twice a year all sorts of Grain
Doth down from heaven, like hailstones, rain;
You ne’r shall need to sow nor plough,
There’s plenty of all things enough:
Wine sweet and wholsome drops from trees,
As clear as chrystal, without lees;
Yea, and a Church unspotted, pure,
From dregs of Papistry secure.
No Feasts nor festival set daies
Are here observed, the Lord be prais’d,