The skies were jaded, while the famous sun

Slack of his office to confute the fogs

Lay sick abed; but I, inured to duty,

Sat for my food.  Three hours each day we souls,

Who might be angels but are fastened down

With bodies, most infuriating freight,

Sit fattening these frames and skeletons 

With filthy food, which they must cast away

Before they feed again.