Employment: II
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
businesse,
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,
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;
There
man
is
gone,
Before
we
do
our
wares
unfold:
So
we
freeze
on,
Until
the
grave
increase
our
cold.
