Selected quad for the lemma: ground_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
ground_n	bring_v	fruit_n	good_a	9,065	5	4.7327	4	true

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A46242	Divine raptvres; or, Piety in poesie digested into a queint diversity of sacred fancies / composed by Tho. Iordan ...	Jordan, Thomas, 1612?-1685?	1646 (1646)	Wing J1028; ESTC R10497	24,003	58

wantons with their babes and shew the way To finde their feete to give their brats content They wagge their sporting fingers and present A penny in the forehead or some pap To win the Children to the Mothers lap How soone will they their little grissels stretch And runne apace aspiring for to fetch This petty object never caring though Their way be full of stumbling blockes below Thou art that Mother Lord thou usest charmes And still art dandling Christ within thine armes Presents most glorious objects to our eyes And shewes us where thy choisest mercies lies Why then are we so backward why so slow Or why so loth into thy armes to goe Small molehils seeme as mountaines in our way And every light affliction makes us stay Why should we stop at petty strawes below Make us thy Children Lord we shant doe so A Meditation on a good Father having a bad Sonne QVerkus of late was minded to dispute Of this A tree that 's good brings forth good fruite Hence he concludes such parents that have bin Converted bring forth children void of sinne Peace Querkus peace and hold thy tongue for shame Dost not perceive that thy conclusion 's lame May not a graine that 's free from chaffe and cleare Cast in the ground bring forth a chaffy care A Meditation on a Weathercocke SEe how the trembling Weathercocke can find Noe setled place but turnes with every wind If blustring Zephyr blowes and gives a checke How soon 's this cocke made pliant to his becke If Boreas gets the day t will change its side And turne in spite of bragging Zephyrs pride Thus temporizers turne at every puffe And yet forsooth they thinke they 're good enough If stand they stand if he that seemes to be The greatest turne they turne as fast as he I wonder at such wav'ring feathers did I So often turne t' would make me wondrous giddy Lord let that wind that blowes upon thy flocke Turne me and make me Lord thy weathercocke A Meditation on Cockfighting SEe how those angry creatures disagree Whilst the spectators sit and laugh to see Doe not two neighbours often doe the same Whilst that the Lawyers laugh to see the game A Meditation on an Echo and a Picture SEe how Apelles with his curious art Pourtraies the picture out in every part If he can give 't a voyce no doubt he can Compleatly make the shape a living man Surely his worke would to his praise redound Could he but give the shape he made a sound What wants the Echo of a living creature But Shape and what but voice this comely feature Yet both can't meete together God alone Will have this secret Art to be his owne A Meditation on Noahs Dove WHen God the floods from lands did undivide And made the skye aspiring mountaines hide When heaven raind seas and fountaines were unbound And all mankind except eight soules were drownd Then did Ioves Pilot Noah make an Arke And thrust this little world into a barke Yea then he sent a Dove to range about The Floods to answer his uncertaine doubt O how shee wanders up and downe the Seas Fluttring her weary wings but findes no ease Shee sees no food no resting place no parke But soone returnes into her wished Arke Observe how tender Noah full of Love Opens the window to this weary Dove Puts forth his hands to meete her takes her in But by and by shee flutters out agin Shee findes an Olive leafe and that shee brings Betweene her bill hov'ring her tyred wings Vpon the Arke still Noah is the same Le ts in his wandring Dove that 's now made tame With restlesse flight once more shee gets away And now shee spies the earth that lately lay Sok'd in the impartiall deluge in her pride Adornd with dainty hearbes on every side When food is plenty this ungratefull Dove Forgets her Noah and his former love Minds nothing but her selfe shee that before Did crouch unto thee Arke returnes no more Thou art that Noah Lord and Christ the boate Afflictions are the waters that doe floate Man is that wandring Dove that often flies Vnto his Christ for shelter else he dyes How apt are we good God to use our wings And flye to thee when all these outward things With floods are drowned up though we have bin So vile how apt art thou to catch us in O how our God when we have bin astray Puts forth his armes to meete us in the way And take us home we are no sooner in But by and by we flutter out agin This time by chance like Noahs Dove we see The upper branches of some Olive tree I meane some petty shelter still we flye Vnto our God for aide or else we dye How apt are we when outward things forsake us To haste to God how apt 's our God to take us The third time we are gone now floods are husht The Sun-confronting mountaines bravely washt The Seas give place the lowest vallies seene Yea all the earth most sweetly deckt in greene Now we forget our God and post away And after make an everlasting stay When worldly wealth comes in and we can rest Vpon the creature O how we detest Our former refuge if we find a Parke We ne're returne unto our wonted arke A Meditation on a Shippe MArke how the floting vessell shewes her pride And is extold with every lofty tide But when it ebbes and all the floods retire See how the bragging barke is plungd in mire Iust so good God how apt are we to swim When mercies fill our banckes unto the brim When worldly wealth appeares and we can see Such outward blessings flow then who but we But when it ebbes and thou dost once unlinke These mercies from us O how soone we sinke Good God let not the great estate possesse Me with presumption nor despaire the lesse Let me not sinke when such an ebbe appeares No let me swim in true repentant teares A Meditation on a Windmill OBserve it alwaies t is the makers skill To place the windmill on the highest hill It stands unusefull till the potent windes Puffe up the lofty sayles and then it grinds Iust thus it is the hypocrite 's the mill His actions sayles ambition is the hill The wind that drives him is a blast of fame If blowne with this he runnes if not hee 's tame He stirres not till a puffe of praise doth fill His sailes but then O how he turnes the mill Lord drive me with thy Spirit then I le be Thy windmill and will grind a grist for thee A Meditation on Organs HArke how the Organist most sweetely plaies His Psalmes upon the tone-divided Kayes Each touch a sound but if the hand don't come And strike the kayes how soon 's the musicke dumbe A mod'rate stroke doth well but if too hard The Organ 's broke and all the raptures mard I am that Organ Lord and thou alone Canst play each prayer is a pleasant tone Affliction is the