Life is But Losse

By force I live, in will I wish to dye;
In playnte I passe the length of lingring dayes;
Free would my soule from mortall body flye,
And tredd the track of death's desyred waies:
Life is but losse where death is deemed gaine,
And loathed pleasures breed displeasinge payne.

Who would not die to kill all murdringe greives?
Or who would live in never-dyinge feares?
Who would not wish his treasure safe from theeves,
And quite his hart from pangues, his eyes from teares?
Death parteth but two ever-fightinge foes,
Whose civill strife doth worke our endles woes.

Life is a wandringe course to doubtfull reste,
As oft a cursed rise to damninge leape,
As happy race to wynn a heavenly creste;
None being sure what finall fruites to reape:
And who can like in such a life to dwell,
Whose wayes are straite to heaven, but wide to hell?

Come, cruell death, why lingrest thou so longe?
What doth withould thy dynte from fatall stroke?
Nowe prest I am, alas! thou dost me wronge,
To lett me live, more anger to provoke:
Thy right is had when thou hast stopt my breathe,
Why shouldst thoue stay to worke my dooble deathe?

If Saule's attempt in fallinge on his blade
As lawfull were as eth to putt in ure,
If Sampson's leave a comon lawe were made,
Of Abell's lott, if all that woulde were sure,
Then, cruell death, thou shouldst the tyran play
With none but such as wished for delaye.

Where life is lov'd, thou ready art to kill,
And to abridge with sodayne pangues their joy;
Where life is loath'd thou wilt not worke their will,
But dost adjorne their death to their annoye.
To some thou art a feirce unbidden guest,
But those that crave thy helpe thou helpest lest.

Avaunt, O viper! I thy spite defye:
There is a God that overrules thy force,
Who can thy weapons to His will applie,
And shorten or prolonge our brittle course.
I on His mercy, not thy might, relye;
To Him I live, for Him I hope to die.
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