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| II. |
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| Oh my blacke Soule! now thou art summoned |
| By sicknesse, deaths herald, and champion; |
| Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done |
| Treason, and durst not turne to whence hee is fled, |
| Or like a thiefe, which till deaths doome be read, |
| Wisheth himselfe delivered from prison; |
| But damn'd and hal'd to execution, |
| Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned; |
| Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lacke; |
| But who shall give thee that grace to beginne? |
| Oh make thy selfe with holy mourning blacke, |
| And red with blushing, as thou art with sinne; |
| Or wash thee in Christs blood, which hath this might |
| That being red, it dyes red soules to white. |
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| III. |
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| This is my playes last scene, here heavens appoint |
| My pilgrimages last mile; and my race |
| Idly, yet quickly runne, hath this last pace, |
| My spans last inch, my minutes latest point, |
| And gluttonous death, will instantly unjoynt |
| My body, and my soule, and I shall sleepe a space, |
| But my'ever-waking part shall see that face,
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[CW: Whose] |