As are those apples, pleasant to the eye,
But full of smoke within, which vse to grow
Neere that strange lake, where God powr'd from the skie
Huge showres of flames, worse flames to ouer-throw;
Such are their workes that with a glaring show
Of humble holinesse, in vertue's dye
Would colour mischiefe, while within they glow
With coales of sinne, though none the smoake descrie.
Ill is that angell which earst fell from heauen,
But not more ill than hee, nor in worse case,
Who hides a traitrous minde with smiling face,
And with a doue's white feather maskes a rauen.
Each sinne some colour hath it to adorne,
Hypocrisie all-mighty God doth scorne.