My little son, lie down to sleep
clothed in your tender warmth, by love
wrapped round to cheat the wintry night
brilliant with stars and frost beyond the wall.
A belly filled with milk is feast
enough, no Barmecide may hang
your hunger on an empty plate.
Such comfort’s in a thumb the rich
might envy, and no palace holds
an infant king more crowned than this
whose curls I cover with my kiss.
