Duty, faith, and love, are roots and evergreen.
“My helmet now shall make a hive for bees,
And lover’s songs shall turn to holy psalms;
A man at arms must now sit on his knees,
And feed on prayers that are old age’s alms;
And so, from court to cottage I depart,
My saint is sure of mine unspotted heart.
“And when I sadly sit in homely cell,
I’ll teach my swains this carol for a song:
‘Bless’d be the hearts that think my sovereign well,