prattler, do not glower:
Not a fair look, but you do call it foul:
Not a sweet dish, but you do call it sour:
to you does howl.
By list'ning to your chatting fears
I have both lost mine eyes and ears.
no more, I say:
My thoughts must work, but like a noiseless sphere;
Harmonious peace must rock them all the day:
room for prattlers there.
If you persist this, I will tell you,
That I have med'cine to expel you.
The prescription shall be
My Savior's blood: when ever at his board
I do but taste it, straight it cleanses me,
leaves you not a word;
No, not a tooth or nail to scratch,
And at my actions carp, or catch.
if you talk on still,
Besides my med'cine, know there's some for thee:
Some wood and nails to make a staff or bill
those that trouble me:
The bloody cross of my dear Lord
Is both my med'cine and my sword.