Weigh not his crib, his wooden dish,
    Nor beasts that by him feed;
  Weigh not his mother’s poor attire,
    Nor Joseph’s simple weed.

  This stable is a prince’s court,
    The crib his chair of state;
  The beasts are parcel of his pomp,
    The wooden dish his plate.

  The persons in that poor attire
    His royal liveries wear;
  The Prince himself is come from heaven: 
    This pomp is praised there.

  With joy approach, O Christian wight;
    Do homage to thy King;
  And highly praise this humble pomp,
    Which he from heaven doth bring.

Another, on the same subject, he calls New Heaven, New War.  It is fantastic to a degree.  One stanza, however, I like much: 

  This little babe, so few days old,
    Is come to rifle Satan’s fold;
  All hell doth at his presence quake,
    Though he himself for cold do shake;
  For in this weak, unarmed wise,
    The gates of hell he will surprise.

There is profoundest truth in the symbolism of this.  Here is the latter half of a poem called St. Peters Remorse: 

  Did mercy spin the thread
    To weave injustice’ loom? 
  Wert then a father to conclude
    With dreadful judge’s doom?

  It is a small relief
    To say I was thy child,
  If, as an ill-deserving foe,
    From grace I am exiled.

  I was, I had, I could—­
    All words importing want;
  They are but dust of dead supplies,
    Where needful helps are scant.

  Once to have been in bliss
    That hardly can return,
  Doth but bewray from whence I fell,
    And wherefore now I mourn.

  All thoughts of passed hopes
    Increase my present cross;
  Like ruins of decayed joys,
    They still upbraid my loss.

  O mild and mighty Lord! 
    Amend that is amiss;
  My sin my sore, thy love my salve,
    Thy cure my comfort is.

  Confirm thy former deed;
    Reform that is defiled;
  I was, I am, I will remain
    Thy charge, thy choice, thy child.

Here are some neat stanzas from a poem he calls

  CONTENT AND RICH.

  My conscience is my crown,
    Contented thoughts my rest;
  My heart is happy in itself,
    My bliss is in my breast.

  My wishes are but few,
    All easy to fulfil;
  I make the limits of my power
    The bounds unto my will.

  Sith sails of largest size
    The storm doth soonest tear,
  I bear so small and low a sail
    As freeth me from fear.

  And taught with often proof,
    A tempered calm I find
  To be most solace to itself,
    Best cure for angry mind.

  No chance of Fortune’s calms
    Can cast my comforts down;
  When Fortune smiles I smile to think
    How quickly she will frown.