II.

O, MY black soul! now thou art summoned
By sickness, death's herald and champion,
Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done
Treason, and durst not turn to whence he is fled;
Or like a thief, which, till death's doom be read,
Wisheth himself delivered from prison;
But, damned and haled to execution,
Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned:
Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack.
But who shall give thee that grace to begin?
O, make thyself with holy mourning black,
And red with blushing, as thou art with sin;
Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this
might,

That being red, it dyes red souls to white.

III.

THIS is my play's last scene; here heavens appoint

My pilgrimage's last mile; and my race,

Idly, yet quickly run, hath this last pace,

My span's last inch, my minute's latest point,
And gluttonous death will instantly unjoint
My body and my soul, and I shall sleep a space;
But my ever-waking part shall see that face,
Whose fear already shakes my every joint.

Then, as my soul, to heaven, her first seat, takes flight,

And earth-born body in the earth shall dwell;
So fall my sins, that all may have their right,

58

To where they are bred, and would press me,-to

hell.

Impute me righteous, thus purged of evil;
For thus I leave the world, the flesh, the devil.

IV.

Ar the round earth's imagined corners blow
Your trumpets, angels; and arise, arise
From death, you numberless infinities

Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go,
All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow;
All whom war, death, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you, whose

eyes

Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe. But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space; For, if above all these my sins abound,

'Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace,

When we are there: here, on this lowly ground,
Teach me how to repent; for that's as good
As if thou hadst sealed my pardon with thy blood.

V.

DEATH, be not proud, though some have called

thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For, those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me: From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure, them from thee much more, must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and souls' delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and despe

rate men,

And doth with poison, war, and sickness dwell; And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more: death, thou shalt die.

VI.

SPIT in my face, you Jews, and pierce my side;
Buffet and scoff, scourge and crucify me;
For I have sinned, and sinned, and only he,
Who could do no iniquity, hath died.
But by my death can not be satisfied
My sins, which pass the Jews' impiety.
They killed once an inglorious man; but I
Crucify him daily, being now glorified.
O let me, then, his strange love still admire :
Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment;
And Jacob came clothed in vile, harsh attire,
But to supplant, and with gainful intent
God clothed himself in vile man's flesh, that so
He might be weak enough to suffer woe.

ELEGY.

DEATH, I recant, and say, unsaid by me,
Whate'er hath slipped that might diminish thee.
Spiritual treason, atheism 'tis, to say

That any can thy summons disobey.
The earth's face is but thy table: there are set
Plants, cattle, men, dishes for death to eat.
In a rude hunger now he millions draws

Into his bloody, or plaguy, or starv'd jaws. Now he will seem to spare, and doth more waste, Eating the best first, well preserved to last; Now wantonly he spoils, and eats us not,

But breaks off friends, and lets us piecemeal rot. Nor will this earth serve him: he sinks the deep, Where harmless fish monastic silence keep, Who (were Death dead,) by roes of living sand, Might spunge that element, and make it land. He rounds the air, and breaks the hymnic notes In birds', heaven's choristers, organic throats; Which, if they did not die, might seem to be A tenth rank in the heavenly hierarchy. O strong and long-lived death, how camest thou in? And how without creation didst begin? Thou hast, and shalt see dead, before thou diest, All the four monarchies, and Antichrist. How could I think thee nothing, that see now In all this all, nothing else is but thou. Our births and life, vices and virtues be

Wasteful consumptions, and degrees of thee. For we, to live, our bellows wear, and breath, Nor are we mortal, dying, dead, but death. And though thou beest, O mighty bird of prey,

So much reclaimed by God, that thou must lay

All that thou kill'st at his feet, yet doth he
Reserve but few, and leaves the most to thee;
And of those few, now thou hast overthrown
One whom thy blow makes not ours, nor thine

own.

She was more stories high: hopeless to come

To her soul, thou 'st offered at her lower room. Her soul and body was a king and court;

But thou hast both of captain missed and fort. As houses fall not, though the king remove,

Bodies of saints rest for their souls above. Death gets 'twixt souls and bodies such a place As sin insinuates 'twixt just men and grace : Both work a separation, no divorce.

Her soul is gone to usher up her corse, Which shall be almost another soul; for there Bodies are purer than best souls are here. Because in her, her virtues did outgo

Her years, wouldst thou, O emulous death, do

So,

And kill her young, to thy loss? Must the cost Of beauty and wit, apt to do harm, be lost? What, though thou found'st her proof 'gainst sins of youth?

(), every age a diverse sin pursueth.

Thou shouldst have staid, and taken better hold:
Shortly ambitious; covetous, when old,
She might have proved; and such devotion
Might once have strayed to superstition.
If all her virtues must have grown, yet might
Abundant virtue have bred a proud delight.
Had she perséver'd just, there would have been
Some that would sin, misthinking she did sin;
Such as would call her friendship love, and feign
To sociableness a name profane;