Sinne

LOrd, with what care hast thou begirt us round!Parents first season us: then schoolmastersDeliver us to laws; they send us boundTo rules of reason, holy messengers,

Pulpits and sundayes, sorrow dogging sinne,Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,Bibles laid open, millions of surprises,

Blessings beforehand, tyes of gratefulnesse,The sound of glorie ringing in our eares:Without, our shame; within, our consciences;Angels and grace, eternall hopes and fears.

Yet all these fences and their whole arayOne cunning bosome-sinne blows quite away.