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Upon a Fit of Sickness
by [?]

Twice ten years old not fully told since
nature gave me breath,
My race is run, my thread is spun, lo! here
is fatal Death.
All men must dye, and so must I, this cannot
be revoked,
For Adam’s sake, this word God spake, when he
so high provoke’d.
Yet live I shall, this life’s but small, in
place of highest bliss,
Where I shall have all I can crave, no life is
like to this.
For what’s this life but care and strife? since
first we came from womb,
Our strength doth waste, our time doth hast and
then we go to th’ Tomb.
O Bubble blast, how long can’st last? that
always art a breaking,
No sooner blown, but dead and gone ev’n as a
word that’s speaking,
O whil’st I live this grace me give, I doing good
may be,
Then death’s arrest I shall count best because
it’s thy degree.
Bestow much cost, there’s nothing lost to make
Salvation sure,
O great’s the gain, though got with pain, comes
by profession pure.
The race is run, the field is won, the victory’s
mine, I see,
For ever know thou envious foe the foyle belongs
to thee.