We call him cruel; years to moments shrink,
Ages to years. The telescope is turn'd.
To man's falfe optics (from his folly false)
Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings,
And seems to creep, decrepit with his age;
Behold him, when past by; what then is feen,
But his broad pinions fwifter than the winds?
And all mankind, in contradiction ftrong,
Rueful, aghaft! cry out on his career.

Leave to thy foes thefe errors, and thefe ills;
To nature just, their Cause and Cure explore.
Not fhort heaven's bounty, boundless our expence;
No niggard, nature; men are prodigals.

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We waffe, not ufe our time; we breathe, not live. Time wafted is existence, us'd is life.

And bare exiflence, man, to live ordain'd,

Wrings, and oppresses with enormous weight.
And why? fince Time was given for use, not waste,
Injoin'd to fly; with tempeft, tide, and stars,

To keep his fpeed, nor ever wait for man;
Time's ufe was doom'd a pleasure: wafte, a pain;
That man might feel his error, if unfeen:
And, feeling, fly to labour for his cure;
Not, blundering, fplit on idleness for ease.

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Life's cares are comforts; fuch by heaven design'd; 160
He that has none, must make them, or be wretched.
Cares are employments, and without employ

The foul is on a rack; the rack of rest,
To fouls moft adverse; action all their joy.

Here

Here then, the riddle, mark'd above, unfolds; 165 Then time turns torment, when man turns a fool. We rave, we wrestle, with Great Nature's Plan; We thwart the Deity; and 'tis decreed, Who thwart his will, fhall contradict their own. Hence our unnatural quarrels with ourselves; Our thoughts at enmity; our bosom-broil; We push Time from us, and we wish him back ; Lavish of luftrums, and yet fond of life;

170

Life we think long, and short; Death seek, and shun : Body and foul, like peevish man and wife,

United jar, and yet are loth to part.

Oh the dark days of vanity! while here,

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How taftelets! and how terrible, when gone!
Gone! they ne'er go; when past, they haunt us still;
The spirit walks of every day deceas'd;

If time past,

And fmiles an angel, or a fury frowns.
Nor death, nor life delight us.
And time poffeft, both pain us,

what can please?

That which the Deity to pleafe ordain'd,

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Time us'd. The man who confecrates his hours 185
By vigorous effort, and an honest aim,

At once he draws the fting of life and death;
He walks with Nature; and her paths are peace.

Our error's caufe and cure are feen: See next
Time's Nature, Origin, Importance, Speed;
And thy great Gain from urging his career.—
All-fenfual man, because untouch'd, unseen,
He looks on Time as nothing. Nothing elfe
Is truly man's; 'tis fortune's-Time 's a god.

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Haft

Haft thou ne'er heard of Time's omnipotence?
For, or againft, what wonders he can do!

And will: To ftand blank neuter he difdains.

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Not on those terms was Time (heaven's stranger!) sent On his important embaffy to man.

Lorenzo! no: On the long-deftin'd hour,

From everlasting ages growing ripe,

That memorable hour of wondrous birth,
When the Dread Sire, on emanation bent,
And big with nature, rifing in his might,
Call'd forth creation (for then Time was born),
By Godhead ftreaming through a thousand worlds;
Not on thofe terms, from the great days of heaven,
From old eternity's myfterious orb,

Was Time cut off, and caft beneath the fkies;
The fkies, which watch him in his new abode,
Meafuring his motions by revolving fpheres;
That horologe machinery divine.

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205

210

Hours, days, and months, and years, his children, play,
Like numerous wings around him, as he flics:

Or, rather, as unequal plumes, they shape
His ample pinions, iwift as darted flame,
To gain his goal, to reach his antient reft,
And join anew Eternity his fire;

In his immutability to nest,

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When worlds, that count his circles now, unhing'd 220 (Fate the loud fignal founding) headlong rush

To timeless night and chaos, whence they rofe.
Why spur the speedy? Why with levities
wing thy thort, fhort day's too rapid flight?

Know ft

230

Know't thou, or what thou doft, or what is done? 225
Man flies from Time, and Time from man; too foon
In fad divorce this double flight must end:
And then, where are we? where, Lorenzo! then
Thy fports? thy pomps I grant thee, in a ftate
Not unambitious; in the ruled throud,
Thy Parian tomb's triumphant arch beneath.
Has Death his fopperies? Then well may Life
Put on her plume, and in her rainbow fhine.
Ye well-array'd! ye lilies of our land!
Ye lities male! who neither toil, nor fpin,
(As fifter lilies night) if not fo wife
As Solomon, more fumptucus to the fight!
Ye delicate! who nothing can fupport,
Yourselves moft infupportable! for whom
The winter rofe muft blow, the fun put on
A brighter beam in Leo; filky-foft
Favonius breathe ftill fofter, or be chid;

And other worlds fend odours, fauce, and fong,
And robes, and notions, fram'd in foreign lcoms!

ye

Lorenzos of our age! who deem
One moment unamus'd, a mifery

Not made for feeble man! who call aloud
For every bawble drivel'd o'er by fenfe;
For rattles, and conceits of every caft,

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240

245

For change of follies, and relays of joy,

250

To drag your patient through the tedious length
Of a fhort winter's day-fay, fages! fay,
Wit's oracles! fay, dreamers of gay dreams!

How

How will you weather an eternal night,
Where fuch expedients fail?

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O treacherous Confcience! while fhe feems to fleep On rofe and myrtle, lull'd with fyren fong;

While the feems, nodding o'er her charge, to drop
On headlong Appetite the flacken'd rein,

And give us up to licence, unrecall'd,

Unmark'd ;-fee, from behind her fecret stand,
The fly informer minutes every fault,

And her dread diary with horror fills.

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Not the grofs Act alone employs her pen;
She reconnoitres Fancy's airy band,

265

Their doomfday-book from all-confuming heirs;
Thus, with indulgence most fevere, he treats
Us spendthrifts of ineftimable Time;

Unnoted, notes each moment mifapply'd;

In leaves more durable than leaves of brafs
Writes our whole hiftory; which Death fhall read
In every pale delinquent's private ear;
And Judgement publish; publish to more worlds
Than this; and endlefs age in groans refound.
Lorenzo, such that Sleeper in thy breast!
Such is her flumber; and her vengeance fuch
For flighted counfel; fuch thy future peace!
think'st thou still thou can't be wife too foon?

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But