Answer:
So cold damp and dark I am. To stay you would refrain yet those who occupy me do never complain.
My voice is tender my waist is slender and I'm often invited to play. Yet wherever I go I must take my bow or else I have nothing to say.
I have a little pool with two layers of wall around it. One white and soft and the other dark and hard. What am I?
Who plays when he works and works when he plays?
I am a shimmering field that reaches far. Yet I have no tracks and am crossed without paths.
What do you purposefully put lots of in and on your body, but run away from when you encounter it outside?