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By sicknes, Deathes harold, and Champion [f. 57v]
Thou art like a pilgrim, wch abroad hath done
Treason, and durst not turne to* whom* to whence hees fled
Or like a theiefe, wch till deathes dombe be read
Wisheth himself delivered from prison
But damnd, and haled to execution,
Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned
Yett grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack
But who shall give thee yt grace to beginne
Oh make thy self wth holy mourning black
And red with blushing, as thou art wth sinne?
Or wash thee in Christes blood, wch hath this might
That being red, it dies red soules to white.|
3
This is my plaies last Sceane, here heavens appoint
My pilgrimage last mile; and my race
Idely yett quickly runn, hath this last pace,
My spanns last inch, my minutes last pointe
And gluttonous death, will instantly vnjointe
My body and soule, and I shall sleepe a space
Or presently, I know nott, see that face
Whose feare already shakes my every jointe
Then was* my soule, to heaven her first seat, takes flight

[CW: And]