THE PASSIONATE MAN'S PILGRIMAGE
 

Give me me my scallop-shell of quiet, 
My staff of faith to walk upon, 
My scrip of joy, immortal diet, 
My bottle of salvation, 
My gown of glory, hope's true gage, 
Ad thus I'll take my pilgrimage. 

Blood must be my body's balmer, 
No other balm will there be given, 
Whilst my soul like a white palmer
Travels to the land of heaven, 
Over the silver mountains, 
Where spring the nectar fountains; 
And there I'll kiss 
The bowl of bliss, 
and drink my everlasting fill
On every milken hill. 
My soul will be a-dry before, 
But after it  will thirst no more. 

And by the happy blissful way 
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, 
That have shook off their gowns of clay 
And go apparelled fresh like me. 
I'll bring them first 
To slake their thirst, 
And then to taste those nectar suckets, 
At the clear wells 
Where sweetness dwells, 
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. 

And when our bottles and all we
Are filled with immortality, 
Then the holy paths we'll travel, 
Strewed with rubies thick as gravel, 
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors, 
High walls of coral and pearl bowers. 

From thence to heaven's bribeless hall 
Where no corrupted voices brawl, 
No conscience molten into gold, 
Nor forged accusers bought and sold, 
No cause deferred, nor vain-spent journey, 
For there Christ is the King's Attorney, 
Who pleads for all without degrees, 
And he hath angels, but no fees. 

When the grand twelve million jury
Of our sins and direful fury
'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, 
Christ pleads his death, and then we live. 
Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader, 
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder; 
Thou movest salvation even for alms, 
Not with a bribed lawyer's palms. 

And this is my eternal plea
To him that made heaven, earth, and sea" Seeing my flesh must die so soon, 
And ant a head to dine next noon, 
Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread, 
Set on my soul an everlasting head, 
Then am I ready, like a palmer fit, 
To treat those blest paths which before I writ. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 

I've heard people say that they can only write poetry when they are 'down'. 
To write so peacefully of one's own beheading must surely be some accolade to the consolations of poetry. And this within sight and sound of the headman's block, not in some philosophic calm backwater. This is a story well worth the reading should you not know it already. 
'angels' and no fees is a reference to 'angel' the coin - as well as to the heavenly variety, so Sir Walter's brain had in no way slowed though his mind was serene.