O FLY, my Soul! What hangs upon         Thy drooping 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.