Morning

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.