|
| Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie |
| Thou art slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, |
| And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell, |
| And poppy, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, |
| And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then, |
| One short sleep past, wee wake eternally, |
| And death shall be no more, death thou shalt die. |
|
| XI. |
|
| Spit in my face you Iewes, and pierce my side, |
| Buffet, and scoffe, scourge, and crucifie mee, |
| For I have sinn'd, and sinn'd, and onely he, |
| Who could doe no iniquity, hath dyed: |
| But by my death can not be satisfied |
| My sinnes, which passe the Iewes impietie: |
| They kill'd once an inglorious man, but I |
| Crucifie him daily, being now glorified. |
| O let me then his strange love still admire: |
| Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment. |
| And Iacob came cloath'd in vile harsh attire, |
| But to supplant, and with gainfull intent: |
| God cloath'd himselfe in vile mans flesh, that so |
| Hee might be weake enough to suffer woe.
|
[CW: XII.] |