Those to whom the affairs of the world are affairs,
To which they devote their selves to the very soul,
Who, to other moments give but slight care,
Still when such moments reluctantly crawl;
They are seen anxious, restless and to speech short,
And next exchange leave them feel but little easy;
For they, of all, make known what desires their heart:
Announcing right, to be there no more busy.
They themselves donít let such hours occasioned;
Where consideration they bestow to their intimates,
That drinking in the ease, there remains no emotion constrained,
But they are as stone to all save to worldly intricate.
Whereas the dearest things here take no time to leave,
What for, they know not, they are ever to weave.