New Prince, New Pompe

Behould 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 forc’d He is with sely beastes
In cribb to shroude His headd.

Despise not Him for lyinge there,
First what He is enquire;
An orient perle is often founde
In depth of dirty mire.

Waye not His cribb, His wodden dishe,
Nor beastes that by Him feede;
Way not His mother’s poore attire,
Nor Josephe’s simple weede.

This stable is a Prince’s courte,
The cribb His chaire of State;
The beastes are parcell of His pompe,
The wodden dishe His plate.

The parsons in that poore attire
His royall liveries weare;
The Prince Himself is come from heaven,
This pompe is prised there.

With joy approch, O Christian wighte!
Do homage to thy Kinge;
And highly prise His humble pompe
Which He from heaven doth bringe.