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Good fryday. 1613 Riding towards Wales
Let mans Soule be a spheare, and then in this [11]
The Intelligence that moues, deuotion is.
And as the other Spheares, by beeing growne
Subiect to forrayne Motions, loose theyr owne
And beeing by others hurryed every day
Scarce in a yeare theyre naturall forme obey.
Pleasure or* businesse so our soules admitt
For theyr first Mouer, and ar whirld by it.
Hence is it that I am carryd towards the west
This daye, when my soules forme bends to th'East.
There should I see a Sunne by rising, sett
And by that setting endlesse day begett.
But that Christ on this Crosse did rise and fall
Sinne had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I almost bee glad I not see
That Spectacle, of too much weight for mee.
Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye,
What a death were it then, to see God dye?
It made his owne Lieutenenant Nature shrinke
It made his footstoole cracke, and the Sunne winke.
Could I behold those hands wch span the poles
And tune all Spheares at once, pearc'd wth those holes?
Could I behold that endlesse height, wch is,
Zenith to vs, and our Antipodis
Humbled below vs? or that bloud which is
The seate of all |our| soules, if not of his

[CW: Make]