Fairest thing that shines below,
Why in this robe dost thou appear?
Wouldst thou a white most perfect show,
Thou must at all no garment wear:
Thou wilt seem much whiter so,
Then Winter when 'tis clad with snow.

'Tis not the Linnen shews so fair:
Her skin shines through, and makes it bright;
So clouds themselves like Suns appear,
When the Sun pierces them with Light:
So Lillies in a glass enclose,
The Glass will seem as white as those.

Thou now one heap of beauty art;
Nought outwards, or within is foul:
Condensed beams make every part;
Thy Body's Clothed like thy Soul.
Thy soul, which does it self display,
Like a star plac'd i'th' Milkie way.

Such robes the Saints departed wear,
Woven all with Light divine;
Such their exalted Bodies are,
And with such full glory shine.
But they regard not mortals pain;
Men pray, I fear, to both in vain.

Yet seeing thee so gently pure,
My hopes will needs continue still;
Thou wouldst not take this garment sure,
When thou hadst an intent to kill.
Of Peace and yielding who would doubt,
When the white Flag he sees hung out?