Oh whether shall I flye?
To Hills or Valleys:
Where shall I hidden lye?
T'escape the malice,
Of my pursuers hote.
No Mountaine high,
No vale, or dismall Grotte,
Can shelter mee:
Yet on Mount Calvary,
I kenne a Tree,
Though seemeing seare, and dry,
Yet t'is (I see)
Laden with fruite divine,
Whose shadow blest,
All cursed Fiends decline:
Oh here's my rest./
To Hills or Valleys:
Where shall I hidden lye?
T'escape the malice,
Of my pursuers hote.
No Mountaine high,
No vale, or dismall Grotte,
Can shelter mee:
Yet on Mount Calvary,
I kenne a Tree,
Though seemeing seare, and dry,
Yet t'is (I see)
Laden with fruite divine,
Whose shadow blest,
All cursed Fiends decline:
Oh here's my rest./
