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O my black Soule, now thou art sum̄oned [27]
By Sicknesse deaths Herald and Champion
Thou art like a Pilgrim, wch abroad hath donne
Treason, and durst not turne from* whence hee's fledd;
Or as a Theefe w.ch till deaths doome bee read
Wisheth himselfe deliuerd from prison,
But, Damnd and hal'd to execution,
Wisheth that still hee might bee imprisoned.
Yet Grace (if thou repent) thou canst not lack
But who shall giue thee that Grace to begin?
O make thy selfe with holy mourning black
And redd with blushing as thou art w.th Sinns
Or washe thee in Christs bloud, wch hath this might
That beeing redd it dyes redd soules to white
This is my Playes last Scene. heere Heauens appoint
My Pilgrimages last mile; and my race
(Idly, yet quickly, runn) hath this last pace,
My spans last Inch, my minutes latest point,
And gluttonous death will instantly vnioynt
My body and Soule, and I shall sleepe apace
Or prsently (I knowe not) see that face
Whose feare already shakes mee every ioynt.
Then, as my soule to heauen (her first seate) takes flight
And Earth-borne body in the Earth shall dwell
So fall my Sinnes, (that all may haue theyr right)
To where th'are bredd, and would presse mee; to hell.
Impute mee righteous purged thus of evill
ffor so I leaue the world, the flesh; and deuill

[CW: 7 I am___]