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.