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George Herbert - Conscience
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           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 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 physick to expell thee.

           And the receit shall be
My Saviour`s 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 cross of my deare lord
     Is both my physick and my sword.
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