KIll me not ev’ry day,
Thou Lord of life; since thy one death for me
            Is more then all my deaths can be,
                    Though I in broken pay
Die over each hour of Methusalems1 stay.

                    If all mens tears were let
Into one common sewer, sea, and brine;
            What were they all, compar’d to thine?
                    Wherein if they were set,
They would discolour thy most bloudy sweat.

                    Thou art my grief alone,
Thou Lord conceal it not: and as thou art
            All my delight, so all my smart;
                    Thy cross took up in one,
By way of imprest, all my future mone.