- When I consider how my light is spent,
- E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,
- And that one Talent which is death to hide,
- Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent
- To serve therewith my Maker, and present
- My true account, least he returning chide,
- Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
- I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
- That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
- Either man's work or his own gifts, who best
- Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State
- Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
- And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:
- They also serve who only stand and waite.