| Behold, a silly tender babe in freezing winter night
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| In homely manger trembling lies; |
| alas, a piteous sight!
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| The inns are full, no man will yield this little pilgrim bed
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| But forced he is with silly beasts, in crib to shroud his head
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| This stable is a Prince’s court, this crib his chair of State;
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| The beasts are parcel of his pomp, this wooden dish his plate
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| The persons in that poor attire his royal liveries wear;
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| The Prince himself is come from Heav’n; |
| this pomp is prizèd there
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| With joy approach o Christian wight, do homage to thy King;
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| And highly praise his humble pomp, which he from Heav’n doth bring |