Oh my blacke Soule!

Oh my blacke Soule! now thou art summoned

By sicknesse, death's herald, and champion;

Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done

Treason, and durst not turne to whence hee is fled,

Or like a thiefe, which till death's doome be read,

Wisheth himselfe deliver'd from prison;

But dam'd and hal'd to execution,

Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned.

Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lacke;

But who shall give thee that grace to beginne?

Oh make thyselfe with holy mourning blacke,

And red with blushing, as thou are with sinne;

Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might

That being red, it dyes red soules to white.