The Jews

Poore nation, whose sweet sap and juiceOur cyens have purloin'd, and left you drie:Whose streams we got by the Apostles sluce,And use in baptisme, while ye pine and die:Who by not keeping once, became a debter;And now by keeping lose the letter:

Oh that my prayers! mine, alas!Oh that some Angel might a trumpet sound;At which the Church falling upon her faceShould crie so loud, untill the trump were drown'd,And by that crie of her deare Lord obtain,That your sweet sap might come again!