The poems of Robert Southwell

While we live we conquer, nor shall we be less victorious if we die.

Take now your rest in the shade;

And open your mouths to draw in breath,

So that when your hour comes,

You too may go down into the sun-scorched arena.

Rue not my death. Rejoice at my repose;

It was no death to me but to my woe;

The bud was opened to let out the rose,

The chain was loosed to let the captive go.

In plaints I pass the length of lingering days;

Free would my soul from mortal body fly;

And tread the track of death’s desired ways.