Peace prattler, do not lour:
Not a fair look, but thou dost call it foul:
Not a sweet dish, but thou dost call it sour:
                Music to thee doth howl.
        By listning to thy chatting fears
        I have both lost mine eyes and ears.

                Prattler, no more, I say:
My thoughts must work, but like a noiseless sphere;
Harmonious peace must rock them all the day:
                No room for prattlers there.
        If thou persistest, I will tell thee,
        That I have physic to expel thee.

                And the receipt shall be
My Saviour’s blood: 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 physic, know there’s some for thee:
Some wood and nails to make a staff or bill
                For those that trouble me:
        The bloody cross of my dear Lord
        Is both my physic and my sword.