Barley-Break; Or, Last In Hell

Hell is the place where whipping-cheer abounds,
But no one jailer there to wash the wounds.

Though by well warding many blows we've pass'd,
That stroke most fear'd is which is struck the last.

Let not that day God's friends and servants scare;
The bench is then their place, and not the bar.

Hell is no other but a soundless pit,
Where no one beam of comfort peeps in it.

Time is the bound of things; where'er we go
Fate gives a meeting, Death's the end of woe.

O times most bad,
Without the scope
Of hope
Of better to be had!

Where shall I go,
Or whither run
To shun
This public overthrow?

No places are,
This I am sure,
Secure
In this our wasting war.

Some storms we've past,
Yet we must all
Down fall,
And perish at the last.