RICHARD CRASHAW
No, no, your King 's not yet to seek Where to repose His royal head;
See, see how soon His new-bloom 'd cheek 'Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed!
Sweet choice, said we; no way but so,
Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow!
She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips Her kisses in Thy weeping eye;
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
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 I whose love must keep
The shepherds while they feed their sheep.
To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King Of simple graces and sweet loves!
Each of us his lamb will bring, Each his pair of silver doves'
At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes,
Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!
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