You, Lord Archbishop, 44 Whose see is by a civil peace maintained, 45 Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touched, 46 Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutored, 47 Whose white investments figure innocence, 48 The dove and very blessèd spirit of peace, 49 Wherefore do you so ill translate yourself 50 Out of the speech of peace, that bears such grace, 51 Into the harsh and boist’rous tongue of war, 52 Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood, 53 Your pens to lances, and your tongue divine 54 To a loud trumpet and a point of war?
