Hear bountifully the supplication
Of Christ's culprit Prudentius.
Ours are those highly-blest maids, Cecily, Agatha, Anastasia,
Barbara, Agnes, Lucy, Dorothy, Catherine, who held fast against
the violent assault of men and devils the virginity they had
resolved upon. Ours was Helen, celebrated for the finding of the
Lord's Cross. Ours was Monica, who in death most piously begged
prayers and sacrifices to be offered for her at the altar of
Christ. Ours was Paula, who, leaving her City palace and her rich
estates, hastened on a long journey a pilgrim to the cave at
Bethlehem, to hide herself by the cradle of the Infant Christ.
Ours were Paul, Hilarion, Antony, those dear ancient solitaries.
Ours was Satyrus, own brother to Ambrose, who, when shipwrecked,
jumped into the ocean, carrying about his neck in a napkin the
Sacred Host, and full of faith swam to shore (_Ambrose, Orat.
fun. de Satyro_).
Ours are the Bishops Martin and Nicholas, exercised in watchings,
clad in the military garb of hair cloths, fed with fasts. Ours is
Benedict, father of so many monks. I should not run through their
thousands in ten years. But neither do I set down those whom I
mentioned before among the Doctors of the Church.
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