by James Shirley
O fly, my soul ! What hangs upon
Thy dropping wings,
And weighs them down
With love of gaudy mortal things.
The Sun is now i' the east : each shade
As he doth rise
Is shorter made,
That earth may lessen to our eyes.
O be not careless then and play
Until the Star of Peace
Hide all his beams in dark recess
Poor pilgrims needs must lose their way,
When all the shadows do increase.
Massingham, H. J., Ed. A Treasury of Seventeeth Century English Verse.
London: Macmillan and Co., Ltd., 1931. 201-202.
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