T was the winter wild, While the heaven-born child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies: Had doff'd her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathise : To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow: And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw ; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities. But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding |