My eyes, which from each beautious sight Drew Spider-like blacke venome in: Close like the marigold at night Opprest with dew to bath my sin. My eares shut up that easie dore Which did proud fallacies admit: And vow to heare no follies more; Deafe to the charmes of sinne and wit. My hands (which when they toucht some faire Imagin'd such an excellence, As th' Ermines skin ungentle were) Contract themselves, and loose all sence. But you bold sinners! still pursue Your valiant wickednesse, and brave Th' Almighty Justice: hee'le subdue And make you cowards in the grave. Then when he as your judge appeares, In vaine you'le tremble and lament. And hope to soften him with teares, To no advantage penitent. Then will you scorne those treasures, which So fiercely now you doate upon: Then curse those pleasures did bewitch You to this sad illusion. The neighb'ring mountaines which you shall Wooe to oppresse you with their weight: Disdainefull will deny to fall, By a sad death to ease your fate. In vaine some midnight storme at sea To swallow you, you will desire: In vaine upon the wheels you'le pray Broken with torments to expire. Death, at the sight of which you start, In a mad fury then you'le Court: Yet hate th' expressions of your heart, Which onely shall be sigh'd for sport. No sorrow then shall enter in With pitty the great judges eares. This moment's ours. Once dead, his sin Man cannot expiate with teares. _Militia est vita hominis._ To Sir _Hen. Per._ _Sir_