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Death bee not proude though some haue called thee [30]
Mighty and dreadfull, for thou art not so
ffor those whome thou thinkst thou dost over throw
Dye not (poore death) nor yet canst thou kill mee
ffrom rest, and sleepe (wch but thy pictures bee)
Much pleasure, then, from thee, much more must flowe
And soonest our best men with |thee| doe goe
Rest of theyr bodye* and soules deliuery.
Th'art Slaue to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men
And dost with poyson warre and sicknesse dwell
And poppy, or charmes can make vs sleepe as well
And easyer then thy stroke. Why swellst thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally
And Death shall bee no more; Death thou shalt dye.
Wilt thou loue God, as hee thee? Then digest
My Soule this wholesome 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 hee ne're begunn)
Hath daignd to choose thee by Adoption
Coheyre to his Glory, and Sabbaths endlesse rest
And as a robbd man wch by search doth find
His stolne steede* sold, must loose, or buy't agayne
The Sonne of Glory came downe and was slayne
Vs, whome hee had made, and Sathan stole, to vnbind
Twas much that Man was made like God before
But that God should bee made like man, much more

[CW: Spitt]