Humble we must be, if to heaven we go; High is the roof there, but the gate is low.

Here a pretty Baby lies Sung asleep with Lullabies: Pray be silent, and not stirre The easie earth that covers her.

Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.

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.

Love is a circle that doth restless move in the same sweet eternity of love.

Temptations hurt not, though they have accesse; Satan o'ercomes none but by willingnesse.

My soul I'll pour into thee.