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But harken to the song, Glory to glories king, And peace all men among, These queristers doe sing. Angels they are, as also (Shepheards) hee Whom in our feare we doe admire to see.
Let not amazement blinde
Your soules, said he, annoy: To you and all mankinde My message bringeth ioy. For loe the world's great Shepheard now is borne,
A blessed babe, an infant full of power : After long night, vp-risen is the morne, Renowning Bethlem in the Sauiour. Sprung is the perfect day,
By prophets seene a farre : Sprung is the mirthfull May, Which Winter cannot marre. In Dauid's citie doth this sUnne appeare : Clouded in flesh, yet Shepheards sit we here.
Finis. E. B. |
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