When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,   
Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs?   
When, when, Peace, will you, Peace? I’ll not play hypocrite   
To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes; but   
That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows           
Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?   
   
O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu   
Some good! And so he does leave Patience exquisite,   
That plumes to Peace thereafter. And when Peace here does house   
He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,    
        He comes to brood and sit.