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.