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 And royal robes more precious, than kings of many lands. Theſe, who while fighting here below, into this vale of tears Were often compaſſed about, with many doubts and fears, Who oftentimes were made to doubt, yea almoſt to deſpair, Of getting victory, or that they ever ſhould come there. They having got above all theſe, ſhall then be made to ſing, The trophies of their victory, to their immortal king Who ſaved them; and in his love them with his own blood waſh'd, From all their ſins, and who their foes in pieces all have daſh'd. And when they ſhall come above, for to devide the ſpoil Then preſently ſhall be forgot, their former grief and toil. Then ſurely it ſhall ne'er them grieve, that ever they did croſs, Their ſinful inclinations, that cleav'd to them ſo cloſe. Or that they ever did take pains, their ſtrong laſts to ſubdue, Of this their labour ſurely then; they'll have no cauſe to rue. But rather it would be their grief, if any griefs were there, For ſuch a thing that then there did, ſo much indulge and ſpare,