I now think love is rather deaf, than blind, For else it could not be, That she, Whom I adore so much, should so slight me, And cast my love behind: I'm sure my language was as sweet, And every close did meet In sentence of as subtle feet As hath the youngest he, That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree. Oh, but my conscious fears, That fly my thoughts between, Tell me that she hath seen My hundreds of gray hairs, Told seven and forty years, Read so much waist, as she cannot embrace My mountain belly and my rock face, As all these, through her eyes, have stopt her ears.
Ben Jonson - 1572-1637
A Hymn on the Nativity of My Savior
I sing the birth was born tonight, The Author both of life and light; The angels so did sound it, And like the ravished shepherds said, Who saw the light, and were afraid, Yet searched, and true they found it. The Son of God, the eternal King, That did us all salvation bring, And freed the soul from danger; He whom the whole world could not take, The Word, which heaven and earth did make, Was now laid in a manger. The Father's wisdom willed it so, The Son's obedience knew no "No," Both wills were in one stature; And as that wisdom had decreed, The Word was now made Flesh indeed, And took on Him our nature. What comfort by Him do we win? Who made Himself the Prince of sin, To make us heirs of glory? To see this Babe, all innocence, A Martyr born in our defense, Can man forget this story?