WHEN I consider how my light is spent   E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,   And that one Talent which is death to hide,   Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present   My true account, least he returning chide,   Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,   I fondly ask; But patience to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need   Either man's work or his own gifts, who best   Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed   And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:   They also serve who only stand and waite.