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 only balmer, Whilst my soul, like a quiet palmer, Travelleth towards the land of heaven; No other balm will there be given. O’er the silver mountains, Where spring the nectar fountains, There will I kiss The bowl of bliss, And drink my everlasting fill Upon every milken hill. My soul will be a-dry before, But after it will thirst no more.
From thence to heaven’s bribeless hall, Where no corrupted voices brawl, No conscience molten into gold, No forged accuser bought or sold, No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey; For there Christ is the King’s attorney, Who pleads for all without degrees, And he hath *angels, but no fees. And when the twelve grand million jury Of our sins with direful fury ’Gainst our souls black verdicts give, Christ pleads His death, and then we live.
Sir Walter Raleigh, 1552-1618
*Angels is a punning reference to the gold coin of Sir Walter's day