THE RUN-AWAYES RETURN: OR, The Poor Penniless Pilgrim.
WHat, Come again? Where have you Roving been?
And what
Rare Sights i'th'
Countrey have you seen?
What
News from thence? Did you the
Plague Out-run?
Or tell me truly, Was it not Begun
Before you came? Or is your
Money spent
Which you had in your
Pockets when you went?
Will not the
Countrey Trust? Your
Credit's bad;
Is there no Entertainment to be had?
That to our
City, dailie Day by Day,
You flock as fast, as when you
Ran away!
Doth
Home-spun Jone, or
Countrey-Tom denie
You for to Lodge, or in their
Barn to lie?
It was the
Plague did drive you out from hence,
And now the
Plague o'th' Purse, I fear from thence:
What
Fury dogs, and haunts you up and down,
First from the
City, to the
Countrey Town?
But when you'r there, you are afraid to stay,
And with a nimble pace do
Run away;
Like as the fearful Hare, or Swift-foot Deer,
Doth flie before the Hounds: Your
Panniek Fear
Doth cause you with a swift and nimble pace,
To
Run away, and flee from place to place,
For suppos'd
Safety; yet you are much worse,
Having both
Plague of Body, and of Purse:
They that shun
Scylla, stern
Charibdis shall
With sucking billows cause them catch a fall.
Did not you know that
Gods Almighty Hand
Was great enough to cover all the Land?
Or from His
Presence did you think to
Run?
Or His
Swift Arrows did you think to
Shun?
No, no, they'r Speedie, and will overtake
The
Fearful Sinner, although he do make
As
quick a Flight, as doth the Sun i'th'
Sky,
Yet they like
Lightning, do more faster
flie.
What have you got by
Running up and down,
And
Roving up and down from Town to Town?
But spent
your Money, Credit, and
good Name,
And now are forced to
your Endless shame,
To this
Infected place as fast to
Run,
Which few Months since,
Fear caus'd you for to
Shun.
Doth not
God's Mighty Hand stretch over all
Empires and
Kingdoms of Earths Massy Ball?
And if
you Wander'd all the World about,
Could not His hand of
Justice find
you out?
To stop Gods
Wrath, is not to
Run away,
But humblie at His
Footstool for to
pray;
Confess our Faults, Repent, and Turn to God,
Then would He ease us of His heavie Rod;
Withdraw the
Plague, and Love us dearlie too,
And this I' me sure our Gracious God would do.
Gods golden wings of Safetie cover all
Who trust in Him, when twice
Ten thousands fall
At their right hand; His silver feathers will
Them safelie shelter, when His hand shall
kill
All such as dare not to His
Mercy stand,
But seeks to hide them from His wide-spread hand:
When from
Infected London you did
Run,
Thinking Gods Ʋisitation for to Shun;
And in the
Countrey wander'd up and down,
From place to place, and eke from Town to Town;
And could find none that would you Entertain,
With
Empty Pockets turned
back again;
So that it seems in
London those might
stay
Who had no
Money, you might
Run away:
But now
your Purse is Penniless, you drive
Into our
City, as Bees to their Hive;
You may be gone the same way that you went,
Unto the
Countrey Loobies, where you spent
Your
Money, and your
Credit, Go, be gone,
And eat
your Christmas Pye with
Dull Sir John;
With
Sir John Lack Latin, who
Ran away,
And left his
Sheep for to be made a Prey.
It was
your Duties to have Nourished
The bodies of the
Poor; the other Fed
Their
Souls with
Food, and not to
go away,
But in their
Troubles by them for to
stay.
Now if your
Purse or
Credit will hold out,
You may go
Wander all the World about;
We are as glad
your Backside for to see,
As for to have
your Paltrey Company:
Return, Return, unto your
Countrey Jone,
For
Little Kindness here you shall have shown.
FINIS.
LONDON, Printed for the Author, M.DC.LXV.