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SCORN NOT THE LEAST!
WHERE wards are weak, and foes encount'ring strong;
And silent sees, that speech could not amend!
When pike doth range, the silly tench doth fly,
The merlin cannot ever soar on high;
Nor greedy greyhound still pursue the chase!
He that high growth on cedars did bestow,
In AMAN'S pomp, poor MARDOCHEUS Wept:
Yet GOD did turn his fate upon his foe!
We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May;
NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP.
BEHOLD, a silly tender Babe,
The inns are full. No man will yield
But forced he is, with silly beasts,
Despise him not for lying there;
Weigh not his crib, his wooden dish; Nor beasts that by him feed! Weigh not his mother's poor attire: Nor JOSEPH's simple weed!
This stable is a Prince's Court;
The persons in that poor attire,
The Prince himself is com'n from Heaven.
With joy approach, O, Christian wight!
And highly praise his humble pomp;
THE BURNING BABE.
As I, in hoary winter's night, stood shivering in the snow;
his tears were bred:
'Alas!' quoth he, 'but newly born, in fiery heats I fry; Yet none approach to warm their hearts, or feel my fire but I! My faultless Breast, the furnace is; the fuel, wounding Thorns; Love is the fire, and Sighs, the smoke; the ashes, Shames and Scorns.
The fuel Justice layeth on; and Mercy blows the coals: The metal in this furnace wrought, are men's defilèd Souls. For which, as now, on fire I am, to work them to their good; So will I melt into a bath! to wash them in my blood!' With this, he vanished out of sight, and swiftly shrank away; And straight I callèd unto mind, that it was Christmas Day.
LOVELY MAYA, HERMES' mother,
Of fair FLORA much befriended!
To whom this sweet month is commended.
Daisies, cowslips, and primroses,
Of these, each where, Nymphs make trim posies;
Behold, a herd of jolly Swains
Go flocking up and down the mead! A troop of lovely Nymphs do tread; And dearnly dancing on yon plains,
Each doth, in course, her Hornpipe lead!
Before the Grooms, plays PEERS the Piper!
With frisking gambols and such glee,
Unto the lovely Nymphs they haste!
The Shepherds poopen in their pipe!
To see the frisking, and the scouping!
Fling out, in their new motley breeches!
This done, with jolly cheer and game,
There, with a garland, they did crown
The Swains, with shouts, rocks' echoes move!
To see the Rounds, the Morris Dances,
To hear those Songs, the Shepherds make! One with his hobby-horse still prances;
While some, with flowers, a highway make!