We flee to Thee,
Who wast, in Bethlehem City,
Of Mary Maiden born:
For such as we.
V. BEHOULDE A SELY TENDER BABE,
Or, NEW PRINCE, NEW POMPE
1.Behoulde 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 forced He is with sely beastes
In cribbe to shroude His headd.
2.Despise not Him for lying there,
First what He is enquire:
An orient perle is often found
In depth of dirty mire.
Waye not His cribbe, His wodden dishe,
Nor beastes that by Him feede:
Waye not His Mother's poor attire,
Nor Josephe's simple weede.
3.This stable is a Prince's courte,
The cribbe His chaire of state:
The beastes are parcell of His pompe,
The wodden dishe His plate.
The parsons in that poor attire
His royall liveries weare:
The Prince Himself is come from heaven,
This pompe is prisèd there.
4.With joye approch, O Christen wighte,
Do homage to thy Kinge:
And highly prise this humble pompe,
