* * *
Oh my black Soule! Now thou art summoned By sicknesse, deaths 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 deaths doome be read, Wisheth himselfe deliverd from prison; But damn'd and hal'd to execution, Wisheth that sill he might be imprisioned; Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lacke; But who shall give thee that grace to beginne? Oh make thy selfe with holy mourning blacke; And red with blushing, as thou art with sinne; Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might That being red, it dyes red soules to white.
English Poetry - http://www.eng-poetry.ru/english/index.php. E-mail email@example.com