Oh my blacke Soule! now thou art summoned

Oh my black 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 deliverd from prison;

But damn’d and hal’d to execution,

Wisheth that sill he might be imprisioned;

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 Christ’s blood, which hath this might

That being red, it dyes red soules to white.