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11 |
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Death bee not proude though some haue called thee [30] |
Mighty and dreadfull, for thou art not so |
ffor those whome thou thinkst thou dost over throw |
Dye not (poore death) nor yet canst thou kill mee |
ffrom rest, and sleepe (wch but thy pictures bee) |
Much pleasure, then, from thee, much more must flowe |
And soonest our best men with |thee| doe goe |
Rest of theyr bodye* and soules deliuery. |
Th'art Slaue to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men |
And dost with poyson warre and sicknesse dwell |
And poppy, or charmes can make vs sleepe as well |
And easyer then thy stroke. Why swellst thou then? |
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally |
And Death shall bee no more; Death thou shalt dye. |
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12 |
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Wilt thou loue God, as hee thee? Then digest |
My Soule this wholesome meditation |
How God (the Spirit by Angels wayted on |
In heauen) doth make his Temple in thy brest |
The father hauing begott a sonne most blest |
And still begetting (for hee ne're begunn) |
Hath daignd to choose thee by Adoption |
Coheyre to his Glory, and Sabbaths endlesse rest |
And as a robbd man wch by search doth find |
His stolne steede* sold, must loose, or buy't agayne |
The Sonne of Glory came downe and was slayne |
Vs, whome hee had made, and Sathan stole, to vnbind |
Twas much that Man was made like God before |
But that God should bee made like man, much more
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[CW: Spitt] |