Thomas, quoth she, let be your taunts,
You play the pick-thank I perceive,
Tho’ you be brother’d ’mong the saints,
An unbelieving heart you have
Thou brought’st the Lord unto the grave,
But would’st no more with him remain,
And wast the last of all the lave
That did believe he rose again.
There might no doctrine do thee good,
No miracles make thee confide,