In Numbers, and but these few,
I sing Thy Birth, Oh Jesu!
Thou prettie Babie, borne here,
With sup'rabundant scorn here:
Who for Thy Princely Port here,
Hadst for Thy place
Of Birth a base
Outstable for thy Court here.

Instead of neat Inclosures
Of interwoven Osiers;
Instead of fragrant Posies
Of Daffadils, and Roses;
Thy cradle, Kingly Stranger,
As Gospell tells
Was nothing els,
But, here, a homely manger.

But we with Silks, (not Crewels),
With sundry precious Jewells,
And Lilly-work will dresse Thee;
And as we dispossesse Thee
Of clouts, wee'l make a chamber,
Sweet Babe, for Thee,
Of Ivorie,
And plaister'd round with Amber.

The Jews they did disdaine Thee,
But we will entertaine Thee
With Glories to await here
Upon Thy Princely State here,
And more for love, then pittie.
From yeere to yeere,
Wee'l make Thee, here,
A Freeborn of our Citie.