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I. WHAT 1 if this present were the world’s last night? | |
| Marke in my heart, O soule, where thou dost dwell, | |
| The picture of Christ crucified, and tell | |
| Whether his countenance can thee affright: | |
| Teares in his eyes quench the amazing light; | 5 |
| Blood fills his frownes which from his pierc’d head fell; | |
| And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell | |
| Which pray’d forgiuenesse for his foes’ fierce spight? | |
| No, no; but as in my idolatrie, | |
| I said to all my profane mistresses, | 10 |
| Beauty, of pitty, foulnesse onely is, | |
| A signe of rigour; so I say to thee, | |
| To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assign’d— | |
| His beauteous forme assumes a piteous minde. | |
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II. O my black soul! now thou art summoned | 15 |
| By sicknesse, death’s herald and champion, | |
| Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done | |
| Treason, and durst not turne to whence hee is fled; | |
| Or like a thiefe, which, till death’s doome be read, | |
| Wisheth himselfe deliuered from prison; | 20 |
| But, damn’d and hal’d to execution, | |
| Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned: | |
| Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lacke; | |
| But who shall give thee that grace to beginne? | |
| O make thyselfe with holy mourning blacke, | 25 |
| And red with blushing, as thou art with sinne; | |
| Oh wash thee in Christ’s blood, which hath this might, | |
| That being red, it dyes red soules to white. | |
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III. At the round earth’s imagin’d corners blow | |
| Your trumpets, angells; and arise, arise | 30 |
| From death, you numberlesse infinities | |
| Of soules, and to your scatter’d bodies goe, | |
| All whom the flood did, and fire shall ouerthrow; | |
| All whom warre, death, age, agues, tyrannies, | |
| Despaire, law, chance, hath slaine; and you whose eyes | 35 |
| Shall behold God, and never tast death’s woe. | |
| But let them sleepe, Lord, and mee mourne a space; | |
| For, if above all these my sinnes abound, | |
| ’Tis late to aske abundance of thy grace, | |
| When wee are there: here, on this lowly ground, | 40 |
| Teach mee how to repent; for that’s as good | |
| As if thou hadst seal’d my pardon with thy blood. | |
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IV. As due, by many titles, I resigne | |
| Myselfe to thee, O God: first, I was made | |
| By thee, and for thee; and when I was decay’d, | 45 |
| Thy blood bought that the which before was thine. | |
| I am thy sonne, made with thyselfe to shine; | |
| Thy servant, whose paines thou hast still repaid; | |
| Thy sheepe, thine image; and, till I betray’d | |
| Myselfe, a temple of thy Spirit divine. | 50 |
| Why doth the devil then usurpe on mee? | |
| Why doth he steale, nay, ravish that’s thy right? | |
| Except thou rise, and for thy own worke fight, | |
| Oh, I shall soone despaire, when I doe see | |
| That thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not chuse me; | 55 |
| And Satan hates mee, yet is loth to lose mee. | |
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V. This is my playe’s last scene; here heavens appoint | |
| My pilgrimage’s last mile; and my race | |
| Idly, yet quickly runne, hath this last pace, | |
| My span’s last inch, my minute’s latest point, | 60 |
| And gluttonous death will instantly unjoynt | |
| My body and my soule, and I shall sleepe a space; | |
| But my ever-waking part shall see that face, | |
| Whose feare already shakes my every joynt: | |
| Then, as my soule to heaven, her first seate, takes flight, | 65 |
| And earth-borne body in the earth shall dwell; | |
| So fall my sinnes, that all may have their right, | |
| To where they are bred, and would presse mee,—to hell. | |
| Impute me righteous; thus purged of evill; | |
| For thus I leave the world, the flesh, the devill. | 70 |
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VI. Spit in my face, you Jewes, and pierce my side; | |
| Buffet and scoffe, scourge and crucifie mee; | |
| For I have sinn’d, and sinn’d, and onely hee | |
| Who could do no iniquitie hath dyed. | |
| But by my death can not be satisfied | 75 |
| My sinnes, which passe the Jewes’ impiety. | |
| They kill’d once an inglorious man; but I | |
| Crucifie him daily, being now glorified. | |
| O let mee then his strange love still admire: | |
| Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment: | 80 |
| And Jacob came cloth’d in vile harsh attire | |
| But to supplant, and with gainfull intent: | |
| God cloth’d himselfe in vile man’s flesh, that so | |
| He might be weake enough to suffer woe. | |
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VII. Death, be not proud; thou some have called thee | 85 |
| Mighty and dreadfull, for thou art not so; | |
| For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow | |
| Die not, poore Death, nor yet canst thou kill mee: | |
| From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, | |
| Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must flow, | 90 |
| And soonest our best men with thee doe goe— | |
| Rest of their bones, and soules’ deliverie. | |
| Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, | |
| And doth with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell; | |
| And poppie, or charmes, can make us sleepe as well, | 95 |
| And better than thy stroake. Why swell’st thou then? | |
| Our short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, | |
| And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die. | |
