|
.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. |