Away feare with thy projectes, noe false fyre, which thou doest make, can ought my courage quaile or cause mee leward come, or strike my sayle; what if the world doe frowne att my retyre, what if denyall dash my wish'd desire and purblind pitty doe my state bewaile and wonder cross it selfe, and free speech raile and greatnes take it not, and death shew nigher? Tell them, my Soule, the feares that make mee quake: the smoldering brimstone, and the burning lake, life feeding Death, Death ever life devowring, tormentes not moved, unheard, yett still roaring, God lost, hell fownd: ever, never begune: now bidd me into flame from smoake to runne. |