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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.| |
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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
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[CW: And] |