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And let the mighty babe alone,
architecture is His own. The babe, whose birth embraves this morn, Made His own bed ere He was born.
Chorus. The babe whose birth, &c.
Come hovering o'er the place’s head,
To furnish the fair infant's bed. Forbear, said I, be not too bold, Your fleece is white, but 'tis too cold.
fleece of fire bestow, For well they now can spare their wings,
Since Heaven itself lies here below. Well done, said I; but are you sure Your down, so warm, will pass for pure ?
Chorus. Well done, said I, &c.
Where to repose His royal head ;
'Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed.
Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow ! uma
Chorus. Sweet choice, said
Welcome all wonders in one sight!
Eternity shut in a span
! Summer in winter! day in night!
Welcome, tho' nor to gold, nor silk,
To more than Cæsar's birthright is
With many a rarely-temper'd kiss,
She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips
Her kisses in Thy weeping eye; ? fos She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips,
That in their buds yet blushing lie. She 'gainst those mother diamonds tries The points of her young eagle's eyes.*
Welcome—tho' not to those gay flies,
Gilded i'th' beams of earthly kings, Slippery souls in smiling eyes—
* This verse is not in the version of the Paris edition of 1652.
But to poor shepherds, homespun things, Whose wealth’s their flocks, whose wit's to be Well read in their simplicity.
Yet, when young April's husband show'rs
Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed, We'll bring the first-born of her flowers,
To kiss Thy feet, and crown Thy head. To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep The shepherds while they feed their sheep.
To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King
Of simple graces and sweet loves !
Each his pair of silver doves !
CASTING the times with their strong signs,
USE, now the servant of soft loves no more,
A thousand sweet babes from their mothers' breast,
Of language to my infant lips, ye best imag
Of confessors! whose throats, answering his swords,
Great Anthony! Spain's well-beseeming pride,
Map of heroic worth! whom far and wide
Deign thou to wear this humble wreath that bows
To be the sacred honour of thy brows.
Suck hidden sweets, which well-digested proves
Thou, whose strong hand, with so transcendent worth,
The Tyrrhene seas and shores sound all the same,
Below the bottom of the great abyss,
Hold the perverse prince in eternal ties,