The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations/Employment (II)
For works with similar titles, see Employment.
¶ Employment.
HE that is weary, let him sit.My soul would stirreAnd trade in courtesies and wit,Quitting the furreTo cold complexions needing it.
Man is no starre, but a quick coalOf mortall fire:Who blows it not, nor doth controllA faint desire,Lets his own ashes choke his soul.
When th' elements did for place contestWith him, whose willOrdain'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 starresWatch an advantage to appeare.
Oh that I were an Orenge-tree,That busie plant!Then should I ever laden be,And never wantSome 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 freez on,Untill the grave increase our cold.