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 Bodie’s only Balmer,
Whilst my Soul like a quiet Palmer,
Travelleth towards the Land of Heaven,
No other Balm will there be given.
Over the Silver Mountains,
Where spring the Nectar Fountains,