The ninth muse.
1
What ayles thee o my soule, my deare,
Such face, such feare to shevve?
Novve death doe come to cite thee home
Is all thy faith, but devve
2
Is death soe fearce, soe fell, to eies,
To thoughts that vvas soe free;
It is a shame to thee my soule
Thou dost noe more Christ see.
3
Where is thy faith? in vvords thou couldst
Call oft for death in life
Is all but talke? is all but smoke?
Where is thy hope so rife?
4
Hath thy svveete Christ novv sent for thee
And art thou loth to goe?
Rouze vp thy selfe for shame o soule
And doe not serue him soe.
5
O lord raise vp this hart of mine
That faints, & droopes in death
O that J might thy cup once tast,
And liue in thy svveete breath.
6
The spright vvould come, but flesh is vveake
Lord helpe this guest of thine,
And rid her from this flesh of sinne
Which is a broode of mine.
7
I come to thee, o lord I come
Streach forth thine hand to me,
O death, o graue vvhere is thy sting?
My crovvne, my god I see.
9. Thought.
They are blest that haue a part in
the first life for on such the last death
shall haue noe strength but they shal be
preests of god, and of Christ.
Apoc. 20. 6.
