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.