- 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.
