Page:The Cambridge Carol Book.djvu/11

 We flee to Thee, Who wast, in Bethlehem City, Of Mary Maiden born: For such as we.

a sely tender Babe In freesing winter nighte, In homely manger trembling lies: Alas, a pitious sighte: The inns are full, no man will yelde This little Pilgrime bedd; But forced He is with sely beastes In cribbe to shroude His headd.

Despise not Him for lying there, First what He is enquire: An orient perle is often found In depth of dirty mire. Waye not His cribbe, His wodden dishe, Nor beastes that by Him feede: Waye not His Mother's poor attire, Nor Josephe's simple weede.

This stable is a Prince's courte, The cribbe His chaire of state: The beastes are parcell of His pompe, The wodden dishe His plate. The parsons in that poor attire His royall liveries weare: The Prince Himself is come from heaven, This pompe is prisèd there.

With joye approch, O Christen wighte, Do homage to thy Kinge: And highly prise this humble pompe, Which He from heaven doth bringe,