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 physick to expell thee. And the receit shall be My Saviours bloud: whenever 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 bill For those that trouble me: The bloudie crosse of my deare Lord Is both my physick and my sword. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MY SISTER by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH FROST-WORK by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ECHOES OF SPRING: 2 by MATHILDE BLIND THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 49. FAREWELL TO JULIET (11) by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT A VIOLINIST by FRANCIS WILLIAM BOURDILLON THAT DAY by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |