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AN ODE OF THE BIRTH OF OUR SAVIOUR.
In numbers, and but these few, I sing thy birth, oh Jesu! Thou prettie Babie, borne here, With sup'rabundant scorn here; Who for thy princely port here,
Hadst for thy place •
Of birth, a base Out-stable for thy court here.
Instead of neat inclosures Of interwoven osiers; Instead of fragrant posies Of daffadills and roses, Thy cradle, kingly stranger,
As gospell tells,
Was nothing els, But, here, a homely manger.
But we with silks, not cruells, With sundry precious Jewells, And lilly- work will dresse thee; And as we dispossesse thee |
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