| What if this present were the world’s last night?
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| Marke in my heart, O Soule, where thou dost dwell,
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| The picture of Christ crucified, and tell
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| Whether that countenance can thee affright,
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| Teares in his eyes quench the amazing light,
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| Blood fills his frownes, which from his pierc’d head fell.
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| And can that tongue adjudge thee into hell,
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| Which pray’d forgivenesse for his foes fierce spight?
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| No, no; |
| but as in my Idolatrie
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| I said to all my profane mistresses,
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| Beauty, of pity, foulenesse onely is
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| A sign of rigour: so I say to thee,
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| To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assign’d,
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| This beauteous forme assures a piteous minde. |