ABSTRACT
How deepely Arius am I bound to thee, That sav'dst from death this wretched life of mine: Obtaining CtEsars gentle grace for mee, When I of all helps else dispaird but thine? Although I see in such a wofull state, Life is not that which should be much desir'd: Sith all our glories come to end their date, Our Countries honour and our own expir'd Now that the hand of wrath hath over-gone us, Living (as 'twere) in th'armes of our dead mother, With bloud under our feet, ruine upon us, And in a Land most wretched of all other, When yet we reckon life our deerest good. And so we live, we care not how we live: So deepe we feele impressed in our blood, That touch which Nature with our breath did give. And yet what blasts of words hath Learning found, To blow against the feare of death and dying? What comforts unsicke eloquence can sound, And yet all failes us in the point of trying. For whilst we reason with the breath of safety, Without the compasse of destruction living: What precepts shew we then, what courage lofty In taxing others [eares in councell giving? When all this ayre of sweet-contrived wonles
Proves but weake armour to defend the hart. For when this life, pale Feare and Terrour boords, Where are our precepts then, where is our arte? o who is he that from himselfe can turne, That beares about the body of a man? Who doth not toile and labour to adjorne The day of death, by any meanes he can? All this I speake to th'end my selfe t'excuse, For my base begging of a servile breath, Wherein I grant my selfe much to abuse, So shamefully to seeke t'avoide my death.
