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Prison-Pietie

or, Meditations Divine and Moral. Digested into Poetical Heads, On Mixt and Various Subjects. Whereunto is added A Panegyrick to The Right Reverend, and most Nobly descended, Henry, Lord Bishop of London. By Samuel Speed, Prisoner in Ludgate, London
 
 
 

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On the Wilful Impenitent.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

On the Wilful Impenitent.

Tell me, fond Worldling, why dost thou deride
A godly Christian? Is't thy natures pride?
Dost thou not dayly see his weeping eye
Shed Tears to wake thy sleeping Lethargie?
See how he trembles at the sight of sin!
Whilst thou, lewd actor, longest to begin;
And look'st on him as pusillanimous,
A Coward, or a Drone. I tell thee, thus
Thou'rt rashly valiant, and dost spend thy breath
On Toys, whilst he dare boldly look on Death.
He's truly noble; and when he appears,
Is not appall'd before the King of Fears.
Heav'n is his harbour, Grace doth most delight him;
Hell's horrours may appear, but not affright him:
But as a Conqueror over Death and Hell,
Can with his Smiles all their Bravadoes quell;
And with a chearful heart this Ditty sing,
As if in scorn, O, Death, where is thy sting?
Or like a Cherubim that flies on high,
Can say, O, Hell, where is thy victory?
This is the Valediction of a Saint,
Whilst Sinners toyl, and in their labours faint.
Where is the Worldling's glory? He can sin,
Can vitious be, and he can boast therein:

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Can silence Conscience, and outface a Crime,
And shun a blush to damn his Soul betime.
That man a Coward is, and fights by stealth;
For if a sickness doth impair his health,
He then believes Death doth a summons beat,
And his large Spirit sneaks to a retreat.
Doth he not tremble when he once hath got
A shaking Ague, or a Feaver hot?
And when he feels the heavy hand of Fate,
He begs for quarter, though it be too late.
What heaviness then sits upon his look?
Terrour appears, Conscience unfolds its book,
Charges him to consider well and read;
And just as he begins, Death strikes him dead.
A true Repentance cannot be too late;
Early Repentance is a blessed state.
Thus doth a sinner to Perdition fall,
And that which was his Throne, becomes his Thrall.