The glorious lover a divine poem upon the adorable mystery of sinners redemption /

Though Goodness still's opposed by envious Hate▪ Virtue (like Palms) thrives by th' oppressing weight▪ Our Princes Welcome is in part expressed, But what ensues is worse than all the rest. Of his sad usage further I'll declare, And the cursed cruel Foes he met with there. No sooner fluttering Fame the news had told Of his arrive; and that some Seers of old (Heralds of Fate) proclaimed him on Record To be a high-born Prince, and mighty Lord: ⟨p. 25⟩But presently the Voice-Roy of that Land Was filled with Indignation on each hand; Fearing, 'tis like, he might deposed be, Or much diminished in his Dignity; That this great stranger might assume his Crown, Or quite eclipse his perishing Renown. For when the Sun doth rise and shine so clear, The Moon and Stars do all straight disappear. Not knowing what strange evils might arise; He therefore did a bloody Plot devise. Such was his Rage and undeserved spite, He needs would butcher this sweet Lamb of Light; Who though to none he thought one dram of ill, Yet he resolves his precious Blood to spill: But failing of one Treacherous Design, He and his Gang do in a worse combine: Which was by strict Inquiries for to hear, When this bright Star did first to men appear? That so he might exactly know the Day When he arrived, and in a Manger lay. Which known, to make all sure he straight contrives To sacrifice a thousand harmless Lives, And kill the Males, yea every one of them Which had been born in famous Bethlehem, From two years old or under, ever since The late prediction of this new-born Prince. Judging this way ('tis like) might be the best To cut off him, unknown, amongst the rest. Which horrid Massacre he brought to pass, And one more bloody sure there never was: ⟨p. 26⟩If Circumstances were but weighed well, Both what they were, and why that day they fell On the poor Babes; they no compassion have, But hurl them from the Cradle to the Grave. The weeping Mothers raised a swelling flood Of their own tears, mixed with their Children's blood; In every street are heard most dismal Cries, Be wailing those untimely Obsequies: As had been prophesied long before, By Rachel's moans, refusing to give o'er, She sighs, and weeps, and has no comfort got, Because her hopeful Children now are not. Great was the slaughter; yet their hopes were crossed, The precious Prey these raging Blood-hounds lost: