The Soules Calamities exceedeth this,
A Tast of Hell shee often doth sustain,
Rebukes of Conscience, threatning plagues for sin,
A world of Torments oft shee hath within.
Unlesse the Conscience dead and feared be,
Then runs the soule in errors manifold,
Her danger deep shee can in no wise see,
And therefore unto every sin is bold,
The Conscience sleeps, the Soule is dead in sin,
Nere thinks of Hell untill shee comes therein.