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Poems Divine, and Humane

By Thomas Beedome

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Epigram 14. Being a meditation to my selfe.
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Epigram 14. Being a meditation to my selfe.

Why woulst thou live (fond soule) dost thou not know
From whence thou cam'st, and whither thou must goe?
Can walls of clay so much thy sense delight,
As to debarre thee from that glorious flight,
Which thou shouldst covet? canst thou idly prize
The mire, that loads thy wings unfit to rise?
Shouldst thou still live, it were but still to see
Some new sceane Acted of thy Tragidie:
Thou couldst but do to morrow, as this day
Commit fresh sinne, sleepe, eate, or drinke, and play.
No matter then how soone thou dye: then come
Prepare thy selfe to waite thy Judges dombe
Thou cam'st from heaven, then labour to draw neere
Thy quiet center, if thou once rest there,
Thy walls of clay, the mire that loads thy wings,
Shall be a Mansion for the King of Kings.
Thy Tragedy shall end, thy sinne shall cease,
And thou rest ever in an endlesse peace;
Bee't when thou please, good God, at morne or noone,
So I die well, no matter, Lord, how soone.