In poenam sectatur et umbra
The wicked wretche, that mischiefe late hath wroughte,
By murther, thefte, or other heynous crimes,
With troubled minde, hee dowtes hee shalbe caughte,
And leaves the waie, and over hedges climes:
And standes in feare, of everie busshe, and brake,
Yea oftentimes, his shaddowe makes him quake.
A conscience cleare, is like a wall of brasse,
That dothe not shake, with everie shotte that hittes:
Eaven soe there by, our lives wee quiet passe,
When guiltie mindes, are rack'de with fearfull fittes:
Then keepe thee pure, and soile thee not with sinne,
For after guilte, thine inwarde greifes beginne.