|
.11. |
Death be not proud, thou some haue called thee [f. 35v] |
Mighty and dreadfull, for thou art not so. |
for those whom thou thinkst thou dost overthrow |
Dy not poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee. |
Frō rest & sleepe wch but thy pictures bee |
Much pleasure; then frō thee much more must flow, |
And soonest or best men wt thee do go, |
Rest of ther bones, & Soules deliueree. |
Thou art Slaue to Fate, Chance, kings, & desperat men, |
And dost wt poyson, warr, & sicknesse dwell; |
And Poppy or Charmes can make vs sleepe as well, |
And easier then thy stroke, why swellst thou then? |
One short sleepe past, we live eternally |
And Death shalbe no more, Death thou shallt dy. |
|
.12. |
Wilt thou love God, as he, thee? then digest |
My Soule, this holsome meditation: |
How God the Spirit by Angels wayted on |
In heauen; doth make his temple in thy brest. |
The father hauing begott a Sonne most blest, |
And still begetting, (for he nere begonne) |
Hath daignd to chuse thee by adoption |
Coheir to his glory'and Saboths endles rest. |
And as a robd Man, wch by search doth find |
His stolne stuffe sold, must loose or buy'it againe; |
The Sonne of glory came downe and was slaine |
Vs, whom he'had made, and Satan stole, to'vnbind. |
T'was much yt Man was made like God before, |
But yt God should be made like Man much more. |