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.5.
Oh my black Soule, now thou art sum̄oned [f. 34]
By Sicknes, Deaths Harold & Champion;
Thou'art a Pilgrim, wch abroad had don
Treason, & darst not turne to whence he'is fled.
Or as a thiefe wch till death's doome be red
Wisheth himselfe deliuered frō prison
But damn'd & haled to execution
Wisheth yt still he might be'imprisoned.
Yet grace, if thou repent thou canst not lacke.
But who shall giue thee yt grace to begin?
Oh make thy selfe wt holy mourning blacke,
And red wt blushinge as thou art wt Sin.
Or washe thee in Christs blood, wch hath this might
That beeing red, it dyes red Soules to whight.
.6.
This is my Playes last Scene, here heauens appoint
My Pilgrimages last Mile, and my race,
Idely, yet quickly run, hath this last pace
My Spanns last inche; my Minutes last pointe.
And gluttonous death will instantly vnioynt
My body & Soule, & I shall sleepe a space,
Or presently, I know not, see yt face
Whose feare allredy shakes my euery ioynt.
Then as my Soule, to' heauen her first Seate takes flight,
And earthborne body in the earth shall dwell,
So fall my Sins, yt all may haue their right,
To where they'are bred, & would presse me, to tell;
Impute me righteous thus purg'd of euill,
For thus I leaue the world, the fleshe, & deuill.