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| Good fryday. 1613 Riding towards Wales |
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| Let mans Soule be a spheare, and then in this [11] |
| The Intelligence that moues, deuotion is. |
| And as the other Spheares, by beeing growne |
| Subiect to forrayne Motions, loose theyr owne |
| And beeing by others hurryed every day |
| Scarce in a yeare theyre naturall forme obey. |
| Pleasure or* businesse so our soules admitt |
| For theyr first Mouer, and ar whirld by it. |
| Hence is it that I am carryd towards the west |
| This daye, when my soules forme bends to th'East. |
| There should I see a Sunne by rising, sett |
| And by that setting endlesse day begett. |
| But that Christ on this Crosse did rise and fall |
| Sinne had eternally benighted all. |
| Yet dare I almost bee glad I not see |
| That Spectacle, of too much weight for mee. |
| Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye, |
| What a death were it then, to see God dye? |
| It made his owne Lieutenenant Nature shrinke |
| It made his footstoole cracke, and the Sunne winke. |
| Could I behold those hands wch span the poles |
| And tune all Spheares at once, pearc'd wth those holes? |
| Could I behold that endlesse height, wch is, |
| Zenith to vs, and our Antipodis |
| Humbled below vs? or that bloud which is |
| The seate of all |our| soules, if not of his
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[CW: Make] |