White though ye be; yet, Lillies, know,
From the first ye were not so:
  But Ile tell ye
  What befell ye;
Cupid and his Mother lay
In a Cloud; while both did play,
He with his pretty finger prest
The rubie niplet of her breast;
Out of which, the creame of light,
  Like to a Dew,
  Fell downe on you,
  And made ye white.