The soldiers' silence is't with money bought? Thy gift will tell a tale, though they say nought. Whatever with a bribe thou fain wouldst hide, More shamefully thou spreadest far and wide. R. WI. CLXVIII. _Beatae Virgini: de salutatione angelica._ Luc. i. 26-28. Χαῖρε suum neque Caesareus jam nuntiet ales; Χαῖρε tuum penna candidiore venit. Sed taceat, qui χαῖρε tuum quoque nuntiat, ales; Χαῖρε meum penna candidiore venit. Quis dicat mihi χαῖρε meum mage candidus autor, Quam tibi quae dicat candidus ille tuum? Virgo, rogas, quid candidius quam candidus ille Esse potest? Virgo, quae rogat, esse potest. Χαῖρε tuum, Virgo, donet tibi candidus ille; Donas candidior tu mihi χαῖρε meum. Χαῖρε meum de χαῖρε tuo quid differat, audi: Ille tuum dicit, tu paris, ecce, meum. _To the blessed Virgin: concerning the angelic salutation._ Its 'hail' Cæsarean eagle need not bring; Thy 'hail' comes wafted on a whiter wing. But let the 'all-hail' angel e'en be still; My 'hail' comes flitting on a whiter quill. To say my 'hail' what whiter being can be Than that white being who utters thine to thee? Virgin, dost ask what whiter than that white Might be? The Virgin who is asking, might. That white one, Virgin, may give 'hail' to thee; But thou, more white, dost give my 'hail' to me. My 'hail' o'er thy 'hail,' wouldst thou know its worth; He utters thine, but mine thou bringest forth. R. WI. CLXIX. _Pontio lavanti._ Matt. xxvii. 24. Non satis est caedes, nisi stuprum hoc insuper addas, Et tam virgineae sis violator aquae? Nympha quidem pura haec et honesti filia fontis Luget, adulterio jam temerata tuo. Casta verecundo properat cum murmure gutta, Nec satis in lacrymam se putat esse suam. Desine tam nitidos stuprare, ah desine, rores: Aut dic, quae miseras unda lavabit aquas. _To Pontius washing his blood-stained hands._ Is murther no sin? or a sin so cheape That thou need'st heape A rape upon't? Till thy adult'rous touch Taught her these sullied cheeks, this blubber'd face, She was a nimph, the meadowes knew none such; Of honest parentage, of unstain'd race; The daughter of a faire and well-fam'd fountaine As ever silver-tipt the side of shady mountaine. See how she weeps, and weeps, that she appeares Nothing but teares: Each drop's a teare that weeps for her own wast. Harke how at every touch she does complaine her; Harke how she bids her frighted drops make hast, And with sad murmurs chides the hands that stain her. Leave, leave, for shame; or else, good judge, decree What water shal wash this when this hath washèd thee. CR. CLXX. _In die passionis dominicae._