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.
More verses by James Shirley
- The Fair Felon
- Two Gentlemen That Broke Their Promise
- The Garden
- Peace Restored
- To The Painter Preparing To Draw M.M.H.