Lyrics

He that is weary, let him sit. My soul would stirre And trade in courtesies and wit, Quitting the furre To cold complexions needing it. Man is no starre, but a quick coal Of mortall fire; Who blows it not, nor doth controll A faint desire, Lets his own ashes choke his soul. When th' elements did for place contest With him, whose will Ordain'd the highest to be best; The earth sat still, And by the others is opprest. Life is a business, not good cheer; Ever in warres. The sunne still shineth there or here, Whereas the starres Watch an advantage to appeare. Oh that I were an Orenge-tree,1 That busie plant! Then should I ever laden be, And never want Some fruit for him that dressed me. But we are still too young or old; The man is gone, Before we do our wares unfold: So we freeze on, Untill the grave increase our cold.