Yee blushing Virgins happie are
In the chaste Nunn'ry of her brests,
For hee'd prophane so chaste a faire,
Who ere should call them Cupids nests.
Transplanted thus how bright yee grow,
How rich a perfume doe yee yeeld?
In some close garden, Cowslips so
Are sweeter then ith' open field.
In those white Cloysters live secure
From the rude blasts of wanton breath,