Nor Is My Number Full Till I Inscribe Thee, Sprightly Soame, One Of My Righteous Tribe; A Tribe Of One Lip, Leaven, And Of One Civil Behaviour, And Religion; A Stock Of Saints, Where Ev'Ry One Doth Wear A Stole Of White, And Canonised Here; Among Which Holies Be Thou Ever Known, Brave Kinsman, Mark'D Out With The Whiter Stone Which Seals Thy Glory, Since I Do Prefer Thee Here In My Eternal Calender.