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The Sheepheards Song a Caroll or Himne for Christmas.
Sweete Musique, sweeter farre
Then any Song is sweete:
Sweete Musique heauenly rare,
Mine eares (ô peeres) dooth greete.
Your gentle flocks, whose fleeces pearl'd with dewe,
Resemble heauen, whom golden drops make bright:
Listen, ô listen, now, ô not to you
Our pipes make sport to shorten wearie night,
But voyces most diuine,
Make blisfull Harmonie:
Voyces that seeme to shine,
For what else cleares the skie?
Tunes can we heare, but not the Singers see:
The tunes diuine; and so the Singers be.
Then any Song is sweete:
Sweete Musique heauenly rare,
Mine eares (ô peeres) dooth greete.
Your gentle flocks, whose fleeces pearl'd with dewe,
Resemble heauen, whom golden drops make bright:
Listen, ô listen, now, ô not to you
Our pipes make sport to shorten wearie night,
But voyces most diuine,
Make blisfull Harmonie:
Voyces that seeme to shine,
For what else cleares the skie?
The tunes diuine; and so the Singers be.
Loe how the firmament,
Within an azure fold:
The flock of starres hath pent,
That we might them behold.
Yet from their beames proceedeth not this light,
Nor can their Christalls such reflection giue:
What then dooth make the Element so bright?
The heauens are come downe vpon earth to liue.
But harken to the Song,
Glorie to glories King:
And peace all men among,
These Queristers doo sing.
Angels they are, as also (Sheepheards) hee,
Whom in our feare we doo admire to see.
Within an azure fold:
The flock of starres hath pent,
That we might them behold.
Yet from their beames proceedeth not this light,
Nor can their Christalls such reflection giue:
What then dooth make the Element so bright?
The heauens are come downe vpon earth to liue.
But harken to the Song,
Glorie to glories King:
And peace all men among,
These Queristers doo sing.
Angels they are, as also (Sheepheards) hee,
Whom in our feare we doo admire to see.
Let not amazement blinde
Your soules (said he) annoy:
To you and all mankinde,
My message bringeth ioy.
For loe the worlds great Sheepheard now is borne
A blessed Babe, an Infant full of power:
After long night, vp-risen is the morne,
Renowning Bethlem in the Sauiour.
Sprung is the perfect day,
By Prophets seene a farre:
Sprung is the mirthfull May,
Which Winter cannot marre.
In Dauids Cittie dooth this Sunne appeare:
Clouded in flesh, yet Sheepheards sit we heere.
Your soules (said he) annoy:
To you and all mankinde,
My message bringeth ioy.
For loe the worlds great Sheepheard now is borne
A blessed Babe, an Infant full of power:
After long night, vp-risen is the morne,
Renowning Bethlem in the Sauiour.
Sprung is the perfect day,
By Prophets seene a farre:
Sprung is the mirthfull May,
Which Winter cannot marre.
In Dauids Cittie dooth this Sunne appeare:
Clouded in flesh, yet Sheepheards sit we heere.
FINIS.
E. B.
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