How Lilies Came White

White though ye be, yet, lilies, know,

From the first ye were not so;

But I'll tell ye

What befell ye:

Cupid and his mother lay

In a cloud, while both did play,

He with his pretty finger press'd

The ruby niplet of her breast;

Out of which the cream of light,

Like to a dew,

Fell down on you

And made ye white.