Neither gust shakings of this settled globe;
Neither sharpe pencil of war, famine, pest,
Could once one ray engrave in steeled breast,
Or Christians cause their sin-jagged robe disrobe.
Thus stood the sad state of that sin-stain’d time,
And Christians of this our all-zeal cold time,
Let us now par’llel that time with our time,
Our parallel’d time will parallel that time,
Then triple-sainct, thou just geometer true,
Our time not parallel by thy justice line,