Sport, That Wrinkled Care Derides, And Laughter

Which, If Not Victory, Is Yet Revenge.

And Storied Windows Richly Dight, Casting A Dim Religious Light.

Where More Is Meant Than Meets The Ear.

That Virtue Therefore Which Is But A Youngling In The Contemplation Of Evil, And Knows Not The Utmost That Vice Promises To Her Followers, And Rejects It, Is But A Blank Virtue, Not A Pure; Her Whiteness Is But An Excremental Whiteness.

This Is The Month, And This The Happy Morn, Wherein The Son Of Heaven's Eternal King, Of Wedded Maid And Virgin Mother Born, Our Great Redemption From Above Did Bring.