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So much did zeale her conscience ratifie That extreame truth lackt little of a lye: Making Omissions, Artes; layinge the touch Of sinne on thinges, Which some tymes may bee such, As Moses Cherubins, whose natures doe Surpass all speed, by him are winged too; So would her soule, alreadie in heauen, seeme then To clyme by teares, the com̅on staires of Men. How fitt shee was for God, I am content To speake, that death his vaine haste may repent: How fitt for vs, how even, and how sweete; How good in all her titles, and how meete, To haue reformd this forward Heresie, That women can no partes of friendship bee How morall, how diuine, shall not bee tolde Least they that heere her virtues, thinke her old; And least wee take deaths part, and make him gladd Of such a Prey, and to his Tryvmph add.| Death I recant, and say vnsaid by mee What ere hath skipt, that, might diminish thee, Spirituall treason, Athisme tis to saie That any can thy sum̅ons disobaye The Earths face is but thy Table, there are sett Plants, Cattell, Men̅, dishes for Death to eate; In a rude Hvnger, now hee Milions drawes Into his bloody, or Plaguy, or sterud Iawes. |
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