Happy is the bride that the sun shines on.
Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.
Here a little child I stand, Heaving up my either hand; Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, for a benison to fall on our meat, and on us all. Amen.
Humble we must be, if to heaven we go; High is the roof there, but the gate is low.
Who with a little cannot be content, endures an everlasting punishment.
It is the end that crowns us, not the fight.