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If while we are •eere wee are crossed and tossed with much griefe and sorrow, our Comfort is this, that Heaven is our o Masters joy: If wee loath & abhorre the filthie stink of sinne, Heaven is a •aradise, a Garden of Heavenly •owers, where is the Rose of Sa••n, and the Lillie of the Ʋalleyes: |
If while we Are •eere we Are crossed and tossed with much grief and sorrow, our Comfort is this, that Heaven is our oh Masters joy: If we loath & abhor the filthy stink of sin, Heaven is a •aradise, a Garden of Heavenly •owers, where is the Rose of Sa••n, and the Lily of the Ʋalleyes: |
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