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.