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| 11 |
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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. |
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| 12 |
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| 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
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[CW: Spitt] |