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This Herode sought the chyldren,
This chyldren yonge, with corage fell, But in doynge thys vengeaunce His owne sone was slayne by chaunce
In Israeli. Alas! I thynke the moders were wo,
The moders were wo, it was grete skyl, What motherly payne To se them slayne ;
In cradels lyeng styll!
But God him selfe hath theym electe,
Hath theym electe, in heuyn to dwell, For they were bathed in theyr blode, For theyr baptym forsoth it stode
In Israeli. Alas ! agayne what hartes had they,
What harts had they those babes to kyll; With swerdes whan they hym caught, In cradels they lay and laught,
And neuer thought yll. |
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