SONG OF NUNS

by: James Shirley

      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.

'Song of Nuns' was originally published in The Imposture (1652).

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