Jesu, Jesu, The Mad Days That I

At Christmas I No More Desire A Rose Than Wish A Snow In May's New-fangled Mirth; But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

The Pow'r That I Have On You Is To Spare You; The Malice Towards You To Forgive You.

Proper Deformity Shows Not In The Fiend So Horrid As In Woman.

Your Face Is A Book, Where Men May Read Strange Matters.

Sin, That Amends, Is But Patched With Virtue.