Oh my blacke Soule! now thou art summoned

By sicknesse, deaths 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 deaths doome be read,　

Wisheth himselfe delivered from prison;

But damn'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 thy selfe with holy mourning blacke,

And red with blushing, as thou art with sinne;

Or wash thee in Christs blood, which hath this might

That being red, it dyes red soules to white.