Oh my blacke Soule! now thou art summoned
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 deliver'd from prison;
But dam'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?
Oh make thysеlfe with holy mourning blacke
And red with blushing, as thou arе with sinne;
Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might
That being red, it dyes red soules to white