.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 shackeled wth temptation Deere for thy mercye soone enlarge mee nor sinne, nor hell, nor ought besyde shall charg[e] mee

My sowle 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 sencelesse 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 Iesu bidd thy Porter then admitte mee I hold this life and lives delight in loathinge If ought be one my backe that doth not fitt mee Stripp mee of all, & give mee bridall, cloathinge Soe shall I bee received by mee [in another hand: my] Liverie And prisoner sowle shall ioye at Iaile-deliv[e]ry Doct: Batworth in Hibernia interfectus FINIS