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 Mirt. And that his birth should be more singular At noon of day was seen a silver star, Bright as the wise men's torch which guided them To God's sweet babe, when born at Bethlehem; While golden angels (some have told to me) Sung out his birth with heavenly minstrelsy. Amin. O rare! But is't a trespass if we three Should wend along his babyship to see? Mirt. Not so, not so. Chor. But if it chance to prove At most a fault, 'tis but a fault of love. Amar. But, dear Mirtillo, I have heard it told Those learned men brought incense, myrrh and gold From countries far, with store of spices sweet, And laid them down for offerings at his feet. Mirt. 'Tis true, indeed; and each of us will bring Unto our smiling and our blooming king A neat, though not so great an offering. Amar. A garland for my gift shall be Of flowers ne'er suck'd by th' thieving bee; And all most sweet; yet all less sweet than he. Amin. And I will bear, along with you, Leaves dropping down the honeyed dew, With oaten pipes as sweet as new. Mirt. And I a sheep-hook will bestow, To have his little kingship know, As he is prince, he's shepherd too. Chor. Come, let's away, and quickly let's be dress'd, And quickly give—the swiftest grace is best. And when before him we have laid our treasures, We'll bless the babe, then back to country pleasures. White, favourable.