.NDU.MjI1NzE

Docter Batworth upon his death bed

My God I speake it from a full assurance ffaith shall avoid clayme by appropriation My God that holds my spirrit debter in duraunce ffettered with sinne, and shackled with temptation Deare for thy mercye soone enlarge mee not sinne, not hell, nor ought besyde shall [charge?] mee

My soule maye now begonne unto her maker Maker of her, but not of her infection. ffor that's her owne when Gods love doth forsake her ffinall forsakinge is not in election ffor wherby grace, God once shall make his dwellinge There maye bee smityng but there is noe fellinge

Earth what art thou? A Poynt, a sencelelse Centure ffreinds what are you? An ages trusted tryall Life what art thou? A dailye doubtfull venture Death what art yu? A better lifes repiall fflesh wt art yu? A loose untempered morter Sickness what art thou. heavens churlish porter

Sweet Jesu bidd thy Porter then admitte mee I hold this life and lives delight in loathinge I fought be one my back that doth not fill mee Stripp mee of all, & give mee bridall, clothinge Soe shall I bee received by mee Liveris And prisoner soule shall joye at jaile-delivry Doct: Batworth in Hibernia interfectus FINIS