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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=421473" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sonnet 16</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=421473" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">XVI</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=421473" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">When I consider how my light is spent,<br>E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,<br>And that one Talent which is death to hide,<br>Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent<br>To serve therewith my Maker, and present<br>My true account, least he returning chide,<br>Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,<br>I fondly ask; But patience to prevent<br>That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need<br>Either man's work or his own gifts, who best <br>Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State<br>Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed<br>And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:<br>They also serve who only stand and waite.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=John+Milton">John Milton</a></strong></div>

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