Conscience

                    Peace prattler, do not glower:

Not a fair look, but you do call it foul:

Not a sweet dish, but you do call it sour:

                    Music to you does howl.

         By list'ning to your 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 you persist this, I will tell you,

         That I have med'cine to expel you.

                    The prescription shall be

My Savior's blood: when ever at his board

I do but taste it, straight it cleanses me,

                    And leaves you not a word;

         No, not a tooth or nail to scratch,

         And at my actions carp, or catch.

                    Yet if you talk on still,

Besides my med'cine, 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 med'cine and my sword.

Love-joy

As on a window late I cast mine eye,

I saw a vine drop grapes with J and C

Annealed on every bunch. One standing by

Asked what it meant. I (who am never loth

To spend my judgment) said, “It seemed to me

To be the body and the letters both

Of Joy and Charity.” “Sir, you have not missed,”

The man replied; “It figures JESUS CHRIST.”