In wafts, you do spread your white lints,
Chases the sun to dry the baskets of fibers;
Sons of crofters do pluck fuzz for mints;
You are high as dove or chaffs i`winters,
You are cotton, worthier than diadem of alloy,
But if your whiteness is besmirched of oil,
And by what dint shall it be pure as snows?
Rejected, Lifted away by tempest`s tows.
Nothing's beauteous as utterances of wisdom,
Those fairy gilds which falls nether like meteor,
Away from sky, enholds simples i` whiledom;
Fairer he's, of virtues than marigolds inheritor;
As misers, Who's he that prevents his name;
Modesty, requited with grace and fame;
But Immorality gives as dogs in their pen
And defiles as red-oil spilt on white linen.
He that slithers off a climb may fall;
Who loses his feet from peak of mountain;
Topples not but his bones dumped in pall,
Ne`er stand to scrub away his clothe of stain;
Cups are bring to brook free of grimes,
Not a well full of dirts and dead-limes;
And men do sets on tables, pure napery
Not that veil, blackened and inky.
He exalted of great splendour;
Upon zenith a`where he seat,
Hidding himself in wretchs of stour;
Let him brag not of his great feat
Let him look back and call to mind;
Men shall merry, if rose can turn rind;
Or pinnacles can thaw down as candles
For cotton and oil ne'er ally but bear blushes
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem