AND now ye Day wch in ye Morne was thine, Poor Heart, is gone, & can returne no more: Bury'd in this dark Ev'n it goes before, And tells Me yt ye next Night may be mine. Nay why not this? A surer thing is Death By far then Sleep: That nightly drowsy Mist, Which climbs into thy Braine to give Thee Rest, May by ye way obstruct thy feeble Breath. The Day is gone; & well, if onely gone, Is it not lost? Cast up thy score, & know. Ar't so much neerer Heavn, as Thou art to Thy Death; or did thy Life without Thee run? Alas it ran, & for me would not stay, Who waited on my fruitlesse Vanities. I might have travl'd far since I did rise, In praying & in studying hard to-day. Great Lord of Life & Time, reprieve Me still, Whom My owne Sentence hath condemn'd; That I May learne to live my Life before I die, And teach my owne, to follow Thy Sweet Will. |