At the round earths imagin'd corners, blow 
Your trumpets, Angells, and arise, arise 
From death, you numberlesse infinities 
Of soules, and to your scattred bodies goe, 
All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, 
All whom warre, dearth, sage, agues, tyrannies, 
Despaire, law chance, hath slaine, and you whose eyes, 
Shall behold God, and never tast deaths woe. 
But let them sleepe, Lord, and mee mourne a space, 
For, if above all these, my sinnes abound, 
'Tis late to aske abundance of thy grace, 
When wee are there; here on this lowly ground, 
Teach mee how to repent; for that's as good 
As if thou'hadst seal'd my pardon, with thy blood.