My spirit for thee, who shall in thy praise
Gird up her loynes, and furiously run
All kinde of feet, save Satans cloven one.
Such is thy zeale, so well dost thou express it,
That, (wer ’t not like a charme,) I’de say, Christ blesse it.
I needs must say ’tis a spirituall thing
To raile against a bishopp, or the king;
Nor are they meane adventures wee have bin in,
About the wearing of the churches linnen;
But these were private quarrells: this doth fall