Man Hath His Daily Work Of Body

His Rod Revers'd, And Backward Mutters Of Dissevering Power.

It Was The Winter Wild, While The Heaven-born Child, All Meanly Wrapt In The Rude Manger Lies.

The Spirits Perverse With Easy Intercourse Pass To And Fro, To Tempt Or Punish Mortals.

On The Morning Of Christ's Nativity Perhaps Their Loves, Or Else Their Sheep, Was All That Did Their Silly Thoughts So Busy Keep.

The Leaf Was Darkish, And Had Prickles On It, But In Another Country, As He Said, Bore A Bright Golden Flow'r, But Not In This Soil; Unknown, And Like Esteem'd, And The Dull Swain Treads On It Daily With His Clouted Shoon.