Death who art haught, the wretched’s remedy,
Grace! Grace! hands joined I do beseech it thee,
Come, see and conquer for worse things on me
Are launched by love. My senses that did live,
Consumèd are and quenched, and e’en in this place
Where I was galliard, now I see that I am
Fallen away, and where my steps I misplace,
Fall pain and grief; to open tears I nigh am.
And greater ills He’d send if greater may be,
Sweet Death, now is the time thou may’st avail me
And snatch me from His hand’s hostility.
Ah woe! how oft I cry, “Love tell me now:
Why dost thou ill only unto thine own,
Like him of hell who maketh the damned groan?”