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.