Have you seen but a whyte Lilie grow
before rude hands had touch'd it;
Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow
before the soil hath smucht it.
Have you felt the wool of the Beaver,
Or Swansdown ever;
or have smelt of the Bud of the Bryer,
Or the Nard in the fire;
Or have tasted the Bag of the Bee;
O so whyte, O so soft, O so sweet, so sweet,
so sweet is she!
O so whyte, O so soft, O so sweet,
so sweet, so sweet is she!