Happy Is The Bride That The Sun

When The Artless Doctor Sees No One Hope, But Of His Fees, And His Skill Runs On The Lees; Sweet Spirit, Comfort Me! When His Potion And His Pill, Has, Or None, Or Little Skill, Meet For Nothing, But To Kill; Sweet Spirit, Comfort Me!

In The Hour Of My Distress, When Temptations Me Oppress, And When I My Sins Confess, Sweet Spirit, Comfort Me.

In Things A Moderation Keep; Kings Ought To Shear, Not Skin, Their Sheep.

Her Eyes The Glowworm Lend Thee, The Shooting Stars Attend Thee; And The Elves Also, Whose Little Eyes Glow Like The Sparks Of Fire, Befriend Thee.

The Body Is The Soul's Poor House Or Home, Whose Ribs The Laths Are And Whose Flesh The Loam.