The sixt muse.
1
Novve vvhat is death thē say my soule
Ist not a sleepe in graue?
They that did feele the vvorst of it
The stile of sleepe it gaue.
2
And aske thy corps, o my svveet soule
Whē full vvith toyle of day,
If it hath not bine glad to rest
As cloyd vvith a foule vvay.
3
And novve in this svveete sleepe of death
Thou art sure to be blest
Why like a child vvilt thou not goe
To this thy bed thy rest?
4
Didst thou ere see a bird in cage,
Sitt still vvith in the grate?
That might flie foorth to vvoods, to groues
To meete his loue, his mate?
5
Did Paule vvhen god his gyues had burst
And rid him out of iayle?
Crie out, & say, not yet o lord
I doe not like this bayle.
6
Paule slepte tvvixt tvvo that did him keepe
But vvhē that he vvas free
And rid frō iayle did he once turne
To iayle those bonds to see.
7
O my svveete soule didst ere thou see
At sea men sing their songs?
And vvhē to lād they cāe did greeue
And tell their frends of vvrongs.
6. Thought.
O heare me o lord, my god, & giue
light to mine eies least I sleepe the sleep
of death.
Psal. 30. 3.
