To Mr. Thomas Woodward

Haste thee, harsh verse, as fast as thy lame measure
Will give thee leave, to him⁠—my pain and pleasure.
I’ve given thee, and yet thou art too weak,
Feet, and a reasoning soul, and tongue to speak.
Tell him all questions, which men have defended,
Both of the place and pains of hell, are ended;
And ’tis decreed, our hell is but privation
Of him, at least in this earth’s habitation.
And ’tis where I am, where in every street
Infections follow, overtake, and meet.
Live I or die, by you my love is sent;
And you’re my pawns, or else my testament.