All that have life, must certainly obey,
The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are thine,
Nor wou’d ev’n God (in flesh) thy stroke decline.
My name is on thy roll, and sure I must
Encrease thy gloomy kingdom in the dust.
My soul at this no apprehension feels,
But trembles at thy swords, thy racks, thy wheels;
Thy scorching fevers, which distract the sense,
And snatch us raving, unprepar’d from hence;
At thy contagious darts, that wound the heads