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Poem	Kill me not ev'ry day, Thou Lord of life, since thy one death for me Is more than all my deaths can be, Though I in broken pay Die over each hour of Methusalem's stay. If all men's 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 bloody 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 moan.
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