A Meditation on a silly Sheepe.

WHen all the Winds shew forth their boystrous pride,
And every cloud unloads his spungy side,
When Boreus blowes, and all the Heavens weepe,
And with their stormes disturbe the grazing sheepe:
See how the harmelesse creature, much dismaide,
Doth crouch unto the bramble bush for aide:
'Tis true, the bramble hides her from the winde,
But yet it makes her leave her fleece behinde.
Who can but smile at such that knowes not how
To take the frownings of an angry brow;
Whose base revengefull spirits strive to crush
Their foes, though fleece themselves at law'ers bush.
Guide me good God, let me revenge no more,
When once the cure growes worse then the sore.