lignage right:
In this himselfe, his deedes I shew in this,
In this, nought else, my ancestor he is.
But go we: die I must, and with braue ende
Conclusion make of all foregoing harmes:
Die, die I must: I must a noble death,
A glorious death vnto my succor call:
I must deface the shame of time abus'd,
I must adorne the wanton loues I vs'de
With some couragiouse act: that my last daie
By mine owne hand my spotts may wash away.
Come deare _Lucill_: alas! why wepe you thus!
This mortall lot is common to vs all.
We must all die, each doth in homage owe
Vnto that God that shar'd the Realmes belowe.
Ah sigh no more: alas: appeace your woes,
For by your griefe my griefe more eager growes.

Chorus.

Alas, with what tormenting fire.
Vs martireth this blinde desire
To staie our life from flieng!
How ceasleslie our minds doth rack,
How heauie lies vpon our back
This dastard feare of dieng!
_Death_ rather healthfull succor giues,
_Death_ rather all mishappes relieues
That life vpon vs throweth:
And euer to vs doth vnclose
The doore, wherby from curelesse woes
Our wearie soule out goeth.
What Goddesse else more milde then shee
To burie all our paine can be,
What remedie more pleasing?
Our pained hearts when dolor stings,
And nothing rest, or respite brings,
What help haue we more easing?
_Hope_ which to vs doth comfort giue,
And doth or fainting hearts reuiue,
Hath not such force in anguish:
For promising a vaine reliefe
She oft vs failes in midst of griefe,
And helples letts vs languish.
But Death who call on her at nede
Doth neuer with vaine semblant feed,
But when them sorow paineth,
So riddes their soules of all distresse
Whose heauie weight did them oppresse,
That not one griefe remaineth.
Who feareles and with courage bolde
Can _Acherons_ black face beholde,
Which muddie water beareth:
And crossing ouer, in the way
Is not amaz'd at Perruque gray
Olde rustie _Charon_ weareth:
Who voide of dread can looke vpon
The dreadfull shades that rome alone,
On bankes where sound no voices:
Whom with her fire-brands and her Snakes
No whit afraide _Alecto_ makes,
Nor triple-barking noyses:
Who freely can himselfe dispose
Of that last hower which all must close,
And leaue this life at pleasure:
This noble freedome more esteemes,
And in his hart more pr