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.