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T was the winter wild,

While the heaven-born child

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies:
Nature, in awe to him,

Had doff'd her gaudy trim,

With her great Master so to sympathise :

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To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.

Only with speeches fair

She woos the gentle air

To hide her guilty front with innocent snow:

And on her naked shame,

Pollute with sinful blame,

The saintly veil of maiden white to throw ;

Confounded, that her Maker's eyes

Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

But he, her fears to cease,

Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;

She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding

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