Anchors our torn barks on a blessed shore,
Beyond the Dead Sea we here ferry o'er.
To this, Death is our pilot, and disease
100The agent which solicits our release.
Though crosses then pour on my restless head,
Or ling'ring sickness nail me to my bed:
Let this my thought's eternal comfort be,
That my clos'd eyes a better light shall see.
And when by fortune's or by nature's stroke
My body's earthen pitcher must be broke,