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George Herbert - Employment [II]
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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.
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