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Yet pure devotion lets the steeple stand,
And idle battlements on either hand:
Lest that, perhaps, were all those relicks gone,
Furius his sacrilege could not be knowne.


Heîc quærite Trojam.

House-keeping's dead, Saturio, wot'st thou where?
Forsooth they say far hence in Breck-neck shire.
And ever since, they say that feel and taste,
That men may break their neck soon as their fast.
Certes, if pity dy'd at Chaucer's date,
He liv'd a widower long behind his mate:
Save that I see some rotten bed-rid sire,
Which to out-strip the nonage of his heire,

Is cramm'd with golden broths, and drugs of price,
And each day dying lives, and living dies;
Till once surviv'd his wardship's laten eve,
His eyes are clos'd, with choice to die or live.
Plenty and he dy'd both in that same yeare,
When the sad sky did shed so many a teare.
And now, who list not of his labour faile,
Mark with Saturio my friendly tale.
Along thy way thou canst not but descry
Fair glittering halls to tempt the hopeful eye,
Thy right eye 'gins to leap for vaine delight,
And surbeat toes to tickle at the sight;
As greedy T when in the sounding mould
He finds a shining potshard tip'd with gold;.
For never syren tempts the pleased eares,
As these the eye of fainting passengers,
All is not so that seemes, for surely then
Matrona should not be a courtezan;
Smooth Chrysalus should not be rich with fraud,
Nor honest R- be his own wife's bawd.
Look not asquint, nor stride across the way
Like some demurring Alcide to delay;
But walk on cheerly, till thou have espy'd
St. Peter's finger at the church-yard side.
But wilt thou needs, when thou art warn'd so well,
Go see who in so garish walls doth dwell?
There findest thou some stately Dorick frame,
Or neat lonick worke;......?
Like the vain bubble of Iberian pride,
That over-croweth all the world beside.
Which rear'd to raize the crazy monarch's fame,
Strives for a court and for a college name;
Yet nought within but lousy coules doth hold,
Like a scabb'd cuckow in a cage of gold.
So pride above doth shade the shame below;
A golden periwig on a black-moor's brow.
When Mævio's first page of his poesy,
Nail'd to an hundred postes for novelty,
With his big title an Italian mot,
Layes siege unto the backward buyer's groat;
Which all within is drafty sluttish geere,
Fit for the oven, or the kitchen fire.
So this gay gate adds fuel to thy thought,
That such proud piles were never rais'd for nought.
Beat the broad gates a goodly hollow sound
With double echoes doth again rebound;
But not a dog doth bark to welcome thee,
Nor churlish porter canst thou chafing see:
All dumb and silent, like the dead, of night,
Or dwelling of some sleepy Sybarite.
The marble parement hid with desert weed,
With house-leek, thistle, dock, and hemlock-seed:

But if thou chance cast up thy wond'ring eyes,
Thou shalt discern upon the frontispiece
ΟΥΔΕΙΣ ΕΙΣΙΤΩ graven up on high,

A fragment of old Plato's poesy:

The meaning is "Sir Foole, ye may be gone,
"Go back by leave, for way here lieth none."
Look to the tow'red chimnies which should be
The wind-pipes of good hospitality,
Through which it breatheth to the open aire,
Betokening life, and liberal welfare;
Lo! there th' unthankful swallow takes her rest,
And fills the tunnell with her circled nest;
Nor half that smoke from all his chimnies goes
Which one tobacco-pipe drives through his nose.
So raw-bone hunger scorns the mudded walls,
And 'gins to revel it in lordly halls.
So the black prince is broken loose againe
That saw no Sunne save once, (as stories faine)
That once was, when in Trinacry I weene
He stole the daughter of the harvest queene,
And gript the mawes of barren Sicily
With long constraint of pineful penury;
And they that should resist his second rage,
Have pent themselves up in the private cage
Of some blind lane, and there they lurk unknowne
Till th' hungry tempest once be over-blowne:
Then like the coward after neighbour's fray,
They creep forth boldly, and ask, Where are

Meanwhile the hunger-starv'd appurtenance,
Must bide the brunt, whatever ill mischance:
Grim Famine sits in their fore-pined face,
All full of angles of unequal space,
Like to the plane of many-sided squares,
That wont be drawne out by geometars;

So sharp and meager that who should them see
Would swear they lately came from Hungary.
When their brasse pans and winter coverlid
Have wip'd the maunger of the horse's bread,
Oh me! what odds there seemeth 'twixt their cheer
And the swolne bezzle at an alehouse fire,
That tonnes in gallons to his bursten paunch,
Whose slimy draughts his drought can never

For shame, ye gallants! grow more hospitall,
And turn your needlesse wardrobe to your hall.
As lavish Virro that keeps open doores,
Like Janus in the warres,... v whaus
Except the twelve days, or the wake-day feast,
What time he needs must be his consin's guest.
Philene hath bid him, can he choose but come?
Who should pull Virro's sleeve to stay at home?
All yeare besides who meal-time can attend:
Come Trebius, welcome to the table's end.
What though he chires on purer manchet's crowne,
While his kind client grindes on blacke and browne,
A jolly rounding of a whole foot broad,
From off the mong-corne heap shall Trebius load.
What though he quaffe pure amber in his bowle
Of March-brew'd wheat, yet slecks thy thirsting soul
With palish oat, frothing in Boston clay,
Or in a shallow cruise, nor must that stay
Within thy reach, for feare of thy craz'd braine,
But call and crave, and have thy cruise againe :
Else how should even tale be registred,

Or all thy draughts, on the chalk'd barrel's head?
And if he list revive his heartless graine
With some French grape, or pure Canariane;
When pleasing Bourdeaux falls unto his lot,
Some sow'rish Rochelle cuts thy thirsting throate.

What though himselfe carveth his welcome friend
With a cool'd pittance from his trencher's end,
Must Trebius' lip hang toward his trencher side?
Nor, kisse his fist to take what doth betide?
What though to spare thy teeth he employs thy

In busy questions all the dinner long?
>What though the scornful waiter lookes askile,
And pouts and frowns, and curseth thee the while,
And takes bis farewell with a jealous eye,
At every morsell he his last shall see?
And if but one exceed the common size,
Or make an hillock in thy cheeke arise,
Or if perchance thou shouldest, ere thou wist,
Hold thy knife upright in thy griped fist,
Or sittest double on thy backward seat,
Or with thine elbow shad'st thy shared meat,
He laughs thee, in his fellow's eare, to scorne,
And asks aloud, where Trebius was borne?
Though the third sewer takes thee quite away
Without a staffe, when thou would'st longer stay,
What of all this? Is 't not enough to say,
I din'd at Virro his owne board to day?



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X THE satire should be like the porcupine,
That shoots sharp quils out in each angry line,
And wounds the blushing cheeke, and fiery eye,
Of him that hears, and readeth guiltily.
Ye antique satires, how I blesse your dayes,
That brook'd your bolder style, their own dis-

And well near wish, yet joy my wish is vaine,
I had been then, or they been now againe !..
For now our eares been of more brittle mold,
Than those dull earthen eares that were of old:
Sith theirs, like anvils, bore the hammer's head,
Our glasse can never touch unshivered.
But from the ashes of my quiet stile
Henceforth may rise some raging rough Lucile,
That may with Aschylus both find and leese
The snaky tresses of th' Eumenides:
Meanwhile, sufficeth me, the world may say
That I these vices loath'd another day,
Which I hane done with as devout a cheere
As he that rounds Poul's pillars in the yeare,
Or bends his ham downe in the naked quire.
'T was ever said, Frontine, and ever seene,
That golden clerkes but wooden lawyers been.
Could ever wise man wish, in good estate,
The use of all things indiscriminate?
Who wots not yet how well this did beseeme
The learned master of the academe?
Plato is dead, and dead is his device,

Whenas the neighbour-lands so couched layne
That all bore show of one fair champian :
Some headlesse crosse they digged on their lea,
Or roll'd some marked meare-stone in the way.
Poor simple men! for what mought that availe,
That my field might not fill my neighbour's payle,
More than a pilled stick can stand in stead,
To bar Cynedo from his neighbour's bed;
More than the thread-bare client's poverty
Debars th' attorney of his wonted fee?
If they were thriftlesse, mought not we amend,
And with more care our dangered fields defend?
Each man can guard what thing he deemeth deare,
As fearful merchants do their female heir,
Which, were it not for promise of their wealth,
Need not be stalled up for fear of stealth;
Would rather stick upon the bell-man's cries,
Though profer'd for a branded Indian's price.
Then raise we muddy bulwarks on our banks,
Beset around with treble quick-set ranks;
Or if those walls be over weak a ward,
The squared bricke may be a better guard.
Go to, my thrifty yeoman, and upreare
A brazen wall to shend thy land from feare.
Do so; and I shall praise thee all the while,
So be thou stake not up the common style;
So be thou hedge in nought but what's thine owne;
So be thou pay what tithes thy neighbours done;
So be thou let not lie in fallow'd plaine
That which was wont yield usury of graine.
But when I see thy pitched stakes do stand
On thy incroached piece of common land,
Whiles thou discommonest thy neighbour's kyne,'
And warn'st that none feed on thy field save thine;
Brag no more, Scrobius, of thy mudded bankes,
Nor thy deep ditches, nor three quickset rankes.
O happy dayes of old Ducalion,

When one was landlord of the world alone!
But now whose choler would not rise to yield
A peasant halfe-stakes of his new-mown field,
Whiles yet he may not for the treble price
Buy out the remnant of his royalties?
Go on and thrive, my petty tyrant's pride,
Scorne thou to live, if others live beside;
And trace proud Castile, that aspires to be
In his old age a young fifth monarchy:
Or the red hat that cries the lucklesse mayne,
For wealthy Thames to change his lowly Rhine.


Possunt, quia posse videntur.

VILLIUS, the wealthy farmer, left his heire
Twice twenty sterling pounds to spend by yeare:
The neighbours praisen Villio's hide-bound sonne,
And say it was a goodly portion.

Not knowing how some merchants dow'r can rise,

Which some thought witty, none thought ever wise, By Sunday's tale to fifty centuries;

Yet certes Macha is a Platonist

To all, they say, save whoso do not list;
Because her husband, a far-trafick❜d man,
Is a profess'd Peripatecian.

And so our grandsires were in ages past,
That let their lands lye all so widely waste,
That nothing was in pale or hedge ypent
Within some province, or whole shire's extent.
As Nature made the earth, so did it lie,
Save for the furrowes of their husbandry;

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Or to weigh downe a leaden bride with gold,
Worth all that Matho bought, or Pontice sold.
But whiles ten pound goes to his wife's new gowne,
Nor little lesse can serve to suit his owne;
Whiles one piece pays her idle waiting-man,
Or buys an hoode, or silver-handled fanne,
Or hires a Friezeland trotter, halfe yard deepe,
To drag his tumbrell through the staring Cheape;
Or whiles he rideth with two liveries,
And 's treble rated at the subsidies;

One end a kennel keeps of thriftlesse hounds;
What think ye rests of all my younker's pounds
To diet him, or deal out at his doore,
To coffer up, or stocke his wasting store?
If then I reckon'd right, it should appeare
That forty pounds serve not the farmer's heire.




Semel insanivimus.

LABEO reserves a long naile for the nonce,

To wound my margent, through ten leaves at once,
Much worse than Aristarchus his blacke pile
That pierc'd old Homer's side ;............
And makes such faces that me seems I see
Some foul Megara in the tragedy,
Threat'ning her twined snakes at Tantale's ghost;
Or the grim visage of some frowning post
The crabtree porter of the Guild-hall gates;
While he his frightful beetle elevates,
His angry eyne look all so glaring bright,
Like th' hunted badger in a moonlesse night:
Or like a painted staring Saracen ;

His cheeks change hue like th' air-fed vermin skin,
Now red, now pale, and swoln above his eyes
Like to the old Colossian imageries.
But when he doth of my recanting heare,

Away, ye angry fires, and frosts of feare,

Give place unto his hopeful temper'd thought

That yields to peace, ere ever peace be sought: Then let me now repent me of my rage

For writing satires in so righteous age.

Tattelius, the new-come traveller,

With his disguised coate and ringed eare,
Trampling the bourse's marble twice a day,
Tells nothing but stark truths I dare well say ;
Nor would he have them known for any thing,
Though all the vault of his loud murmur ring.
Not one man tells a lye of all the yeare,
Except the Almanack or the Chronicler.
But not a man of all the damned crew,
For hills of gold would sweare the thing untrue.
Pansophus now, though all in the cold sweat,
Dares venture through the feared castle-gate,
Albe the faithful oracles have foresayne,

The wisest senator shall there be slaine:
That made him long keepe home as well it might,
Till now he hopeth of some wiser wight.
The vale of Stand-gate, or the Suter's hill,
Or westerne plaine are free from feared ill.
Let him that hath nought, feare nought I areed:
But he that hath ought hye him, and God speed.
Nor drunken Dennis doth, by breake of day,
Stumble into blind taverns by the way,

And reel me homeward at the ev'ning starre,
Or ride more eas'ly in his neighbour's chayre.
Well might these checks have fitted former times,
And shoulder'd angry Skelton's breathlesse rhymes.
Ere Chrysalus had barr'd the common boxe,
Which erst he pick'd to store his private stocks;
But now hath all with vantage paid againe,
And locks and plates what doth behind remaine;
When erst our dry-soul'd sires so lavish were,
To charge whole boots-full to their friends welfare;
Now shalt thou never see the salt beset
With a big-bellied gallon flagonet.

Of an ebbe cruise must thirsty Silen sip,
That's all forestalled by his upper lip;

Somewhat it was that made his paunch so peare,
His girdle fell ten inches in a yeare.
Or when old gouty bed-rid Euclio
To his officious factor fair could show
His name in margent of some old cast bill,
And say, Lo! whom I named in my will,

Whereas I should have strok'd her tow'rdly head, Whiles he believes, and looking for the share

And cry'd evæe in my satires' stead;

Sith now not one of thousand does amisse,
Was never age I weene so pure as this.

As pure as old Labulla from the banes,

As pure as through faire channels when it raines;
As pure as is a black-moor's face by night,

As dung-clad skin of dying Heraclite.
Seeke over all the world, and tell me where
Thou find'st a proud man, or a flatterer;
A theif, a drunkard, or a paricide,
A lecher, liar, or what vice beside?
Merchants are no whit covetous of late,
Nor make no mart of time, gain of deceit.
Patrons are honest now, o'er they of old,
Can now no benefice be bought or sold?
Give him a gelding, or some two yeares tithe,
For he all bribes and simony defy'th.
Is not one pick-thank stirring in the court,
That seld was free till now, by all report?
But some one, like a claw-back parasite,
Pick'd mothes from his master's cloke in sight,
Whiles he could pick out both his eyes for need,
Mought they but stand him in some better stead.
Nor now no more smell-feast Vitellio
Smiles on his master for a meal or two,
And loves him in his maw, loaths in his heart,
Yet soothes, and yeas and nays on either part.

Tendeth his cumbrous charge with busy care
For but a while; for now he sure will die,

By his strange qualme of liberality.

Great thanks he gives-but God him shield and


From ever gaining by his master's grave:
Only live long, and he is well repaid,

And wets his forced cheeks while thus he said;
Some strong-smell'd onion shall stir his eyes
Rather than no salt teares shall then arise.
So looks he like a marble toward raine,
And wrings and snites, and weeps, and wipes again :
Then turns his back and smiles, and looks askance,
Seas'ning again his sorrow'd countenance;
Whiles yet he wearies Heav'n with daily cries,
And backward death with devout sacrifice,
That they would now his tedious ghost bereav'n,
And wishes well, that wish'd no worse than Heav'n.
When Zoylus was sicke, he knew not where,
Save his wrought night-cap, and lawn piHowbear.
Kind fooles! they made him sick that made him

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These vices were, but now they ceas'd of long:
Then why did I a righteous age that wrong?
I would repent me were it not too late,
Were not the angry world prejudicate.
If all the seven penitential

Or thousand white-wands might me ought availe;
If Trent or Thames could scoure my foule offence
And set me in my former innocence,

I would at last repent me of my rage:
Now, bear my wrong, I thine, O righteous age.
As for fine wits, an hundred thousand fold
Passeth our age whatever times of old.
For in that puisne world, our sires of long
Could hardly wag their too unweildy tongue
As pined crowes and parrots can do now,
When hoary age did bend their wrinkled brow:
And now of late did many a learned man
Serve thirty yeares prenticeship with Priscian;
But now can every novice speake with ease
The far-fetch'd language of th' antipodes. [hight,
Would'st thou the tongues that erst were learned
Though our wise age hath wip'd them of their right;
Would'st thou the courtly three in most request,
Or the two barbarous neighbours of the west?
Bibinus selfe can have ten tongues in one,
Though in all ten not one good tongue alone.
And can deep skill lie smothering within,
Whiles neither smoke nor flame discerned bin?
Shall it not be a wild-fig in a wall,
Or fired brimstone in a minerall?
Do thou disdain, O ever-learned age!
The tongue-ty'd silence of that Samian sage:
Forth, ye fine wits, and rush into the presse,
And for the cloyed world your works addresse.
Is not a gnat, nor fly, nor seely ant,
But a fine wit can make an elephant.
Should Bandell's throstle die without a song,
Or Adamantius, my dog, be laid along,
Downe in some ditch without his exequies,
Or epitaphs, or mournful elegies?
Folly itself, and baldnesse may be prais'd,
And sweet conceits from filthy objects rais'd.
What do not fine wits dare to undertake?
What dare not fine wits do for honour's sake?
But why doth Balbus his dead-doing quill
Parch in his rusty scabbard all the while;
His golden fleece o'ergrowne with mouldy hoare,
As though he had his witty works forswore?
Belike of late now Balbus hath no need,
Nor now belike his shrinking shoulders dread
The catch-poll's fist-The presse may still remaine
And breathe, till Balbus be in debt againe.
Soon may that be! so I had silent beene,
And not thus rak'd up quiet crimes unseen.
Silence is safe, when saying stirreth sore,
And makes the stirred puddle stink the more.
Shall the controller of proud Nemesis
In lawlesse rage upbraid each other's vice,
While no man seeketh to reflect the wrong,
And curb the raunge of his misruly tongue?
By the two crownes of Parnasse ever-green,
And by the cloven head of Hippocrene
As I true poet am, I here avow
(So solemnly kiss'd he his laurell bough)
If that bold satire unrevenged be
For this so saucy and foule injury.

So Labeo weens it my eternal shame

To prove I never earn'd a poet's name.

But would I be a poet if I might,

And bite my nails, and scratch my dullard head,
And curse the backward Muses on my bed
About one peevish syllable; which out sought
I take up Thales joy, save for fore-thought
How it shall please each ale-knight's censuring eye,
And hang'd my head for fear they deem awry:
While thread-bare Martiall turns his merry note
To beg of Rufus a cast winter-coate;
While hungry Marot leapeth at a beane,
And dieth like a starved Cappuchein;
Go, Ariost, and gape for what may fall
From trencher of a flattering cardinall;
And if thou gettest but a pedant's fee,
Thy bed, thy board, and coarser livery,
O honour far beyond a brazen shrine,
To sit with Tarleton on an ale-post's signe !
Who had but lived in Augustus' dayes,
'T had been some honour to be crown'd with bayes;
When Lucan stretched on his marble bed
To think of Cæsar, and great Pompey's deed:
Or when Achelaus shav'd his mourning head,
Soon as he heard Stesichorus was dead.
At least, would some good body of the rest
Set a gold pen on their baye-wreathed crest:
Or would their face in stamped coin expresse,
As did the Mytelens their poetesse.
Now as it is, beshrew him if he might,
That would his browes with Cæsar's laurell dight.
Though what ail'd me, I might not well as they
Rake up some forworne tales that smother'd lay
In chimney corners smoak'd with winter fires,
To read and rock asleep our drowsy sires?
No man his threshold better knowes, than I
Brute's first arrival, and first victory;
St. George's sorrell, or his crosse of blood,
Arthur's round board, or Caledonian wood,
Or holy battles of bold Charlemaine,
What were his knights did Salem's siege maintaine:
How the mad rival of faire Angelice

Was physick'd from the new-found paradise.
High stories they, which with their swelling straine
Have riven Frontoe's broad rehearsal plaine.
But so to fill up books, both backe and side,
What needs it? Are there not enow beside?
O age well thriven and well fortunate,
When each man hath a Muse apropriate;
And she, like to some servile eare-boar'd slave,
Must play and sing when and what he'd have!
Would that were all small fault in number lies,
Were not the feare from whence it should arise.
But can it be ought but a spurious seed
That growes so rife in such unlikely speed?
Sith Pontian left his barren wife at home,
And spent two years at Venice and at Rome,
Returned, hears his blessing ask'd of three,
Cries out, "O Julian law! adultery!"
Though Labeo reaches right (who can deny?)
The true strains of heroick poesy;
For he can tell how fury reft his sense,
And Phoebus fill'd him with intelligence.
He can implore the heathen deities
To guide his bold and busy enterprize;
Or filch whole pages at a clap for need
From honest Petrarch, clad in English weed;
While big but oh's! each stanza can begin,
Whose trunk and taile sluttish and heartlesse been.
He knowes the grace of that new elegance,
Which sweet Philisides fetch'd of late from France,
That well beseem'd his high-stil'd Arcady,

Torub my browes three days and wake three nights, Though others marre it with much liberty,

In epithets to joine two wordes in one
Forsooth, for adjectives can 't stand alone:
As a great poet could of Bacchus say,
That he was Semele-femori-gena.
Lastly he names the spirit of Astrophel;
Now hath not Labeo done wondrous well?
But ere his Muse her weapon learn to weild,
Or dance a sober pirrhicke in the field,
Or marching wade in blood up to the knees,
Her arma virum goes by two degrees,
The sheepe-cote first hath beene her nursery
Where she hath worne her idle infancy,
And in high startups walk'd the pastur'd plaines,
To tend her tasked herd that there remaines,
And winded still a pipe of oate or breare,
Striving for wages who the praise shall beare;
As did whilere the homely Carmelite,
Following Virgil, and he Theocrite;

Or else hath beene in Venus chamber train'd
To play with Cupid, till she had attain'd
To comment well upon a beauteous face,
Then was she fit for an heroick place;
As witty Pontan in great earnest said,

His mistress' breasts were like two weights of lead.
Another thinks her teeth might liken'd be
To two faire rankes of pales of ivory,

To fence in sure the wild beast of her tongue,
From either going far, or going wrong;
Her grinders like two chalk-stones in a mill,
Which shall with time and wearing waxe as ill
As old Catillaes, which wont every night
Lay up her holy pegs till next day-light,
And with them grind soft-simpring all the day,
When, lest her laughter should her gums bewray,
Her hands must hide her mouth if she but smile;
Faine would she seem all frixe and frolicke still.
Her forehead faire is like a brazen bill
Whose wrinkled furrows, which her age doth breed,
Are dawbed full of Venice chalke for need:
Her eyes like silver saucers faire beset
With shining amber, and with shady let,

? Her lids like Cupid's bow case, where he hides
The weapons that doth wound the wanton-ey'd:
Her chin like Pindus, or Parnassus hill,
Where down descends th'o'erflowing stream doth fill
The well of her faire mouth.-Each hath his praise.
Who would not but wed poets now a dayes!




LORD what am I? A worm, dust, vapour, nothing!
What is my life? A dream, a daily dying!
What is my flesh? My soul's uneasie clothing!
What is my time? A minute ever flying:
My time, my flesh, my life, and 1;
What are we, Lord, but vanity?

Where am I Lord? downe in a vale of death: What is my trade? sin, my dear God offending; My sport sin too, my stay a puffe of breath: What end of sin? Hell's horrour never ending: My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place Help up to make up my dolefull case.

Lord what art thou? pure life, power, beauty, bliss:
Where dwell'st thou? up above in perfect light:
What is thy time? eternity it is:

What state? attendance of each glorious sp'rit:
Thyself, thy place, thy dayes, thy state
Pass all the thoughts of powers create.

How shall I reach thee, Lord? Oh, soar above,
Ambitious soul: but which way should I flie?
Thou, Lord, art way and end: what wings have I?
Aspiring thoughts, of faith, of hope, of love:
Oh, let these wings, that way alone.
Present me to thy blissfull throne.



IMMORTALL babe, who this dear day Didst change thine Heaven for our clay, And didst with flesh thy godhead vail, Eternal Son of God, all-hail.

Shine, happy star; ye angels sing Glory on high to Heaven's King:

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Run, shepherds, leave your nightly watch, See Heaven come down to Bethleem's cratch.

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That back and side that ran with bloody streams
Daunt angels' eyes with their majestick beames;
Those feet, once fastened to the cursed tree,
Trample on Death and Hell, in glorious glee.
Those lips, once drencht with gall, do make
With their dread doom the world to quake.

Behold those joyes thou never canst behold;
Those precious gates of pearl, those streets of gold,
Those streams of life, those trees of Paradise
That never can be seen by mortal eyes:
And when thou seest this state divine,
Think that it is or shall be thine.

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