|
| Heare this, & mend thy selfe, and thou mendst me, |
| By making me being dead, doe good for thee, |
| And thinke me well compos'd, that I could now |
| A last-sicke houre to syllables allow. |
|
| Hymne to God my God, in my sicknesse. |
|
| Since I am comming to that Holy roome, |
| Where, with thy Quire of Saints for evermore, |
| I shall be made thy Musique; As I come |
| I tune the Instrument here at the dore, |
| And what I must doe then, thinke here before. |
|
| Whilst my Physitians by their love are growne |
| Cosmographers, and I their Mapp, who lie |
| Flat on this bed, that by them may be showne |
| That this is my South-west discoverie |
| Per fretum febris, by these streights to die, |
|
| I joy, that in these straits, I see my West; |
| For, though those currants yeeld returne to none, |
| What shall my West hurt me? As West and East |
| In all flatt Maps (and I am one) are one, |
| So death doth touch the Resurrection. |
|
| Is the pacifique Sea my home? Or are |
| The Easterne riches? Is Ierusalem? |
| Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltare. |
| All streights, and none but streights are wayes to \(them, |
| Whether where Iaphet dwelt, or Cham, or Sem. |
|
| We thinke that Paradise and Calvarie, |
| Christs Crosse, & Adams tree, stood in one place; |
| Looke Lord, and finde both Ad#ms met in me; |
| As the first Adams sweat surrounds my face, |
| May the last Adams blood my soule embrace.
|
[CW: om] |