Come forth, come forth, yee blest triumphing bands,
Faire citizens of that immortall towne,
Come see that king, who all this all commands,
Now, ouercharg'd with loue, die for his owne:
Looke on those nailes which pierce his feete and hands,
What a strange diademe his browes doth crowne!
Beholde his pallide face, his eyes which sowne,
And what a throng of thieues him mocking stands:
Come forth, yee empyrean troupes, come forth,
Preserue this sacred blood, which earth adornes;
Gather those liquide roses from his thornes,
O! to bee lost they bee of too much worth;
For streames, iuice, baulme, they are, which quench; killes, charmes
Of God, death, hell, the wrath, the life, the harmes.