A Carol Presented To Dr. Williams, Bishop Of Lincoln As A New-Year's Gift

    Fly hence, pale care, no more remember
    Past sorrows with the fled December,
    But let each pleasant cheek appear
    Smooth as the childhood of the year,
        And sing a carol here.
    ‘Twas brave, ’twas brave, could we command the hand
    Of youth’s swift watch to stand
    As you have done your day;
    Then should we not decay.
    But all we wither, and our light
    Is spilt in everlasting night,
    Whenas your sight
    Shows like the heavens above the moon,
    Like an eternal noon
    That sees no setting sun.

    Keep up those flames, and though you shroud
    Awhile your forehead in a cloud,
    Do it like the sun to write
    In the air a greater text of light;
    Welcome to all our vows,
    And since you pay
    To us this day
    So long desir’d,
    See we have fir’d
    Our holy spikenard, and there’s none
    But brings his stick of cinnamon,
    His eager eye or smoother smile,
    And lays it gently on the pile,
    Which thus enkindled, we invoke
    Your name amidst the sacred smoke.

    Chorus. Come then, great Lord.
        And see our altar burn
        With love of your return,
    And not a man here but consumes
    His soul to glad you in perfumes.