He honors it too much that thinkes it nought.
Contemplation of our state in our death-bed.
85Thinke then, my soule, that death is but a Groome,
Which brings a Taper to the outward roome,
Whence thou spiest first a little glimmering light,
And after brings it nearer to thy sight:
For such approaches doth heaven make in death.
90Thinke thy selfe labouring now with broken breath,
And thinke those broken and soft Notes to bee