All men of wisdom yearn to see that day of grace.
He who, as blackamoor, is steeped in sin’s dark dye,
In that dread day shall gulp dishonour’s foulest lye.
The wretch whose countenance beams not bright as the sun,
Shall strive in vain behind the densest veil to run.680
If, like some thorns, his stem display no single rose,
That springtide will prove fatal to his safe repose.
But he that blooms from head to foot with righteous deeds,
With joy shall welcome spring’s awakening of those meads.
The useless thorn desires the nipping wintry blast,