CXVIII. Anonymous

MY sweet little babie, what meanest thou to cry?

Be still, my blessed babe, though cause thou hast to mourne,

Whose blood most innocent the cruell king hath sworne;

And lo! alas! behold! what slaughter he doth make,

Shedding the blood of infants all, sweet Sauiour, for thy sake.

A King is born, they say, which King this king would kill:

Oh! woe, and woefull heauy day, when wretches haue their will!

Three kings this King of kings to see are come from farre,

To each unknowen, with offerings great, by guiding of a starre;

As shepherds heard the song, which angels bright did sing,

Giving all glory unto God for coming of this King,

Which must be made away—king Herod would him kill;

Oh! woe, and woefull heauy day, when wretches haue their will!

Loe! my little babe, be still, lament no more:

From furie thou shalt step aside, helpe haue we still in store:

We heauenly warning haue some other soyle to seeke;

From death must fly the Lord of life, as lamb both milde and meeke:

Thus must my babe obey the king that would him kill:

Oh! woe, and woefull heauy day, when wretches haue their will!

But thou shalt liue and reigne, as Dauid hath forsay’d,

And prophets prophesied***

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Whom caytiues none can ’traye, whom tyrants none can kill:

Oh! joy and joyfull happy day, when wretches want their will!