• Peace

  • When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,
  • Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs?
  • When, when, Peacè, will you, Peace? I’ll not play hypocrite
  • To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes; but
  • That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows
  • Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?
  • O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu
  • Some good!  And so he does leave Patience exquisite,
  • That plumes to Peace thereafter. And when Peace here does house
  • He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,
  • He comes to brood and sit.