O me, how sore, how sad is my poor heart;
How loath my soul is from my flesh to part!
Hath forty years’ acquaintance caused such love
rottenness that thou wilt ungrateful prove
To that invisible light of which we are beams?
Wilt thou leave substances (my soul) for dreams?
The scene is sable; horrid tragedies
Are acted here before my weeping eyes:
Art thou not weary of this dismal stage?
Methinks I’ve lived a tedious pilgrimage,
And now the
sepulchre I’ve reached at last.
My soul, for love or fear, make thou more haste;
For shame, rouse up a little! Mend thy pace.
’Tis glory beckons, and thou’rt led by grace.
Then never care, though death abrupt thy
wants here shall finished be in glory.
Then farewell, empty honor, pleasure, wealth,
And what crowns all, farewell my youth, and health.
To you, my friends, I will not bid adieu:
For in a happier place I shall meet you.