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. 

Oh, 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.