When I consider how my light is spent,

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide,

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide,

Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?

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 mild yoke, they serve him best, his state

Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed