A monster, which the Blatant beast men call, A dreadfull feend of gods and men ydrad. — Edmund Spenser

As withered weed through cruell winters tine,

That feeles the warmth of sunny beames reflection,

Liftes up his head, that did before decline

And gins to spread his leafe before the faire sunshine.

Who will not mercie unto others show,

How can he mercy ever hope to have?

Her berth was of the wombe of morning dew,

And her conception of the joyous Prime.