His Pilgrimage

 GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet, 
 My staff of faith to walk upon, 
My scrip of joy, immortal diet, 
 My bottle of salvation, 
My gown of glory, hope's true gage; 
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
 

Blood must be my body's balmer; 
 No other balm will there be given: 
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, 
 Travelleth towards the land of heaven; 
Over the silver mountains, 
Where spring the nectar fountains; 
 There will I kiss 
 The bowl of bliss; 
And drink mine everlasting fill 
Upon every milken hill.
 
My soul will be a-dry before; 
But, after, it will thirst no more.

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