Leisure

They talk of Time, and of Time’s galling yoke,
That like a mill-stone on man’s mind doth press,
Which only work and business can redress:
Of divine Leisure such foul lies are spoke,
Wounding her fair gifts witlh calumnious stroke,
But might I, fed with silent meditation,
Assoiléd live from that fiend Occupation,
Improbus Labor, which my spirit hath broke,
I’d drink of Time’s rich cup, and never surfeit;— 
Fling in more days than went to make the gem
That crowned the white top of Methusalem:
Yea on my weak neck take, and never forfeit.
Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky,
The heav’n sweet burthen of eternity.

DEUS NOBIS HEC OTIA FECIT.