The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations/Conscience
For works with similar titles, see Conscience.
¶ Conscience.
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 fearsI have both lost mine eyes and eares.
Pratler, no more, I say:My thoughts must work, but like a noiselesse sphereHarmonious peace must rock them all the day:No room for pratlers there.If thou persistest, I will tell thee,That I have physick to expell thee.
And the receit shall beMy Saviours bloud: when ever at his boardI 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 billFor those that trouble me:The bloudie crosse of my deare LordIs both my physick and my sword.