PEace pratler, do not lowre:
Not a fair look, but thou dost call it foul:
Not a sweet dish, but thou dost call it sowre:
                     Musick to thee doth howl.
        By listning to thy chatting fears
        I have both lost mine eyes and eares.

                     Pratler, no more, I say:
My thoughts must work, but like a noiselesse sphere;
Harmonious peace must rock them all the day:
                     No room for pratlers there.
        If thou persistest, I will tell thee,
        That I have physick1 to expell thee.

                     And the receit2 shall be
My Saviours bloud: when ever at his board
I do but taste it, straight it cleanseth me,
                     And leaves thee not a word;
        No, not a tooth or nail to scratch,
        And at my actions carp, or catch.

                     Yet if thou talkest still,
Besides my physick, know there’s some for thee:
Some wood and nails to make a staffe or bill3
                     For those that trouble me:
        The bloudie crosse of my deare Lord
        Is both my physick and my sword.