Those live a short and pleasant life; but these
Protract their lives, in dry, and shorter leas.
Thus live the wicked, thus they do abound,
With earthly glory, and with honour crown'd.
Their lofty heads unto the stars aspire,
And radiant beams, their shining brows attire.
The fattest portion's serv'd up in their dish,
Yea they have more than their own hearts can wish.
Dissolv'd in pleasures, crown'd with buds of May;
They for a time, in these fat pastures play;
Frisk, dance and leap, like full fed beasts; and even
Turn up their wanton heels against the heaven.
Not understanding that this pleasant life
Serves but to fit them for the Butchers knife.
In fragrant Meads, they tumbling are to day,
Tomorrow to the slaughter led away.
Their pleasure's gone, and vanish'd like a bubble
Which makes their future torments on them double.
Mean while, Gods little flock is poor and lean;
Because the Lord did ner'e intend, or mean
This for their portion: and besides doth know
Their souls prove best, where shortest grass doth grow.
Cheer up poor flock although your fare be thin
Yet here is something to take comfort in:
You here securely feed, and need not fear
Th'infernal butcher can't approach you here.
'Tis somewhat that, but O, which far transcends!
Your glorious Shepher'ds coming; who intends
To lead you hence, unto that fragrant hill
Where with green pastures he his flocks will fill.
On which he from celestial casements pours
The sweetest dews, and constant gracious s••owres.
Along whose banks, rivers of pleasures slide
There his bless'd flocks, for ever shall abide.
O envy not the worldlings present joys
Which to your future mercies are but toyes.
Their pasture now is green, your's dry, and burn'd:
But then the Scene is chang'd, the tables turn'd.