I. Come, virgins chaste; pure brides, draw near: Let Earth exult and Heaven hear The Hymn that grateful accents raise, Our song of joy in Rita's praise. II. By fast her sinless frame is weak; Her livid flesh the scourges streak. In pity for her Savior's woes, Her days and even nights are closed. III. The thorn-wound on her brow is shown, The crimson rose in winter blown, And full-ripe figs on frozen tree At Rita's wish the wonders see. IV. The widowed spouse ... [...]