Tell Physic, of her boldness; Tell Fortune, of her blindness; Tell Justice, of delay: And if they will reply; Then give them all the lie! Tell Arts they have no soundness, Tell Schools, they want profoundness, Tell Faith, it's fled the City! So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing: Deserves no less than stabbing; HIS PILGRIMAGE. GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet, My gown of glory, hope's true gage! Blood must be my body's only balmer; Whilst my soul, 'like a quiet Palmer, Travelleth towards the land of Heaven, Over the silver mountains, Where spring the nectar fountains. There will I kiss The bowl of bliss; And drink mine everlasting fill, Upon every milken hill. My soul will be a-dry before; Then by that happy blissful day, More peaceful Pilgrims I shall see; That have cast off their rags of clay, And walk apparelled fresh like me. I'll take them, first, To quench their thirst, And taste of nectar suckets, At those clear wells, Where sweetness dwells; Drawn up by Saints in crystal buckets. And when our bottles and all we Then, the blessèd paths we'll travel, From thence, to Heaven's bribeless Hall: And when the Grand twelve million Jury Against our souls, black verdicts give: Be thou my speaker, taintless Pleader! And this is mine eternal plea To Him that made heaven, and earth, and sea. That, since my flesh must die so soon, And want a head to dine next noon; Just, at the stroke, when my veins start and spread, Set on my soul, an everlasting head! Then am I ready, like a Palmer fit, To tread those blest paths; which before I writ. SHALL I (like a hermit) dwell Calling home the smallest part If She undervalue me; What care I, how fair She be! Were her tresses angel-gold; To convert them to a braid; If the mine be grown so free; Were her hands as rich a prize If She seem not chaste to me; No! She must be perfect snow, |