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PASSION. XXVII. (Book 27)
O Pale death inexorable monster,
That seis'd vpon the remnant of my hope,
Who can thy spites with grauest wisedome conster?
That to thy selfe doest only giue a scope,
To choose the same that worst might be spared,
And doest refuse those that are prepared.
With cutting sythe why hast thou rack'd together,
The future hope of my declyning state,
And left me cut behind alone to wither,
For to bewaile the rigor of their fate?
O gentle death now let me beg and craue,
To follow them that now be clos'd in graue.
Else if I liue, let him that ruleth all,
Ioue sole commaunder both of thee, and thine,
Giue thee in charge, remembrance for to fall,
That racketh still this wracked heart of mine:
Then may I hope some rest for to enioy,
Though loaden now with burthens of annoy.
Faire choysest dames that patronize my ioy,
Now ioyne with me, in prayer to IVPITER,
That I may die, if dying may destroy,
The liuing griefe which leades me thus to erre:
Or if I liue, let life be cloathed soe,
That new attire may banish former woe.