Though thy conception was in sin, A sacred bathing thou hast had; And though thy birth unclean hath been, A blameless babe thou now art made. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. While thus thy lullaby I sing, For thee great blessings ripening be; Thine Eldest Brother is a king, And hath a kingdom bought for thee. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear; For whosoever thee offends By thy protector threaten’d are, And God and angels are thy friends. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. When God with us was dwelling here, In little babes He took delight; Such innocents as thou, my dear, Are ever precious in His sight. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. A little infant once was He; And strength in weakness then was laid Upon His Virgin Mother’s knee, That power to thee might be convey’d. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. In this thy frailty and thy need He friends and helpers doth prepare, Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed, For of thy weal they tender are. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. The King of kings, when He was born, Had not so much for outward ease; By Him such dressings were not worn, Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. Within a manger lodged thy Lord, Where oxen lay and asses fed: Warm rooms we do to thee afford, An easy cradle or a bed. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. The wants that He did then sustain Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee; And by His torments and His pain Thy rest and ease secured be. My baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. Thou hast, yet more, to perfect this, A promise and an earnest got Of gaining everlasting bliss, Though thou, my babe, perceiv’st it not. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. THOMAS CAREW 1589–1639 SONG ASK me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties, orient deep, These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For in pure love heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note. Ask me no more if east or west The phœnix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies!