To man's falfe optics (from his folly falfe)
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 strong,
Rueful, aghaft, cry out on his career.

Leave to thy foes thefe errors, and thefe ills;
To Nature juft, their caufe and cure explore.
Not fhort Heav'n's bounty; boundless our expence ;
No niggard, Nature; men are prodigals.
We wafte, not use our time; we breathe, not live.
Time wafted is exiftence; us'd, is life.

And bare existence, man, to live ordain'd,
Wrings, and oppreffes with enormous weight.
And why? fince Time was giv'n for ufe, not wake,
Injoin'd to fly; with tempeft, tide, and ftars,
To keep his fpeed, nor ever wait for man ;
Time's ufe was doom'd a pleafure; wafte, a pain ;
That man might feel his error, if unfeen:
And, feeling, fly to labour for his cure;
Not, blund'ring, split on idleness for ease.
Life's cares are comforts; fuch by Heav'n defign'd;
He that has none, muft make them, or be wretched.
Cares are employments; and, without employ,
The foul is on the rack; the rack of reft,
To fouls most adverse, action all their joy.

Here, then, the riddle, mark'd above, unfolds; Then Time turns torment, when man turns a fool, We rave, we wrestle with great Nature's plan ;

We

We thwart the Deity; and 'tis decreed,

Who thwart his will, fhall contradict their own.
Hence our unnatural quarrel with ourselves;
Our thoughts at enmity; our hofom-broil;
We push Time from us, and we wish him back;
Lavish of luftrums, and yet fond of life;

Life we think long, and short; Death seek, and shun;
Body and foul, like peevish man and wife,
United jar, and yet are loth part.

Oh the dark days of Vanity! while here,
How taftelefs! and how terrible, when gone!
Gone? they ne'er go; when past, they haunt us ftill;
The spirit walks of ev'ry day deceas'd;

And smiles an angel, or a fury frowns.
Nor death, nor life delight us. If Time paft,
And Time poffeft, both pain us, what can please?
That which the Deity to please ordain'd,

Time us'd. The man who confecrates his hours
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: fee, next,
Time's nature, origin, importance, speed;
And thy great gain from urging his career.—
All-fenfual man, because untouch'd, unfeen,
He looks on Time as nothing. Nothing elfe
Is truly man's; 'tis Fortune's-Time's a God.
Haft thou ne'er heard of Time's omnipotence?
For or against, what wonders can he do !
And will: to ftand blank neuter he difdains.

Not

Not on those terms was Time (Heav'n's stranger!)fent On his important embaffy to man.

Lorenzo! no: on the long-deftin'd hour,
From everlasting ages growing ripe,
That memorable hour of wond'rous 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 thro' a thousand worlds;
Not on those terms, from the great days of Heaven,
From old Eternity's mysterious orb,

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

Hours, days, and months, and years, his children, play,

Like num'rous wings around him, as he flies:
Or, rather, as unequal plumes, they shape
His ample pinions, fwift as darted flame,

To gain his goal, to reach his antient rest,
And join anew Eternity, his fire;

In his immutability to nest,

When worlds, that count his circles now, unhing'd, (Fate the loud fignal founding) headlong rush To timeless Night and Chaos, whence they rose.

Why spur the speedy? Why, with levities, New-wing thy fhort, fhort day's too rapid flight? Know'ft thou, or what thou doft, or what is done? Man flies from Time, and Time from Man; too foon

In

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 state
Not unambitious; in the ruffled shroud,
Thy Parian tomb's triumphant arch beneath. 1
Has Death his fopperies? Then well may Life
Put on her plume, and in her rainbow shine.
Ye well-array'd! Ye lilies of our land!
Ye lilies male! who neither toil nor spin,
(As fifter lilies might) if not so wise
As Solomon, more fumptuous to the fight!
Ye delicate! who nothing can fupport,
Yourselves most infupportable! for whom
The winter rose must blow, the Sun put on
A brighter beam in Leo; filky-foft

Favonius breathe ftill fofter, or be chid;

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

ye Lorenzo's of our age! who deem

One moment unamus'd, a mifery

Not made for feeble man! who call aloud
For ev'ry bawble, drivell'd o'er by fense;
For rattles, and conceits of ev'ry cast,
For change of follies, and relays of joy,
To drag your patient thro' the tedious length
Of a short winter's day-fay, fages! fay,
Wit's oracles! fay, dreamers of gay dreams!
How will you weather an eternal night,
Where fuch expedients fail?

O treach❜rous

O treach❜rous 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; See, from behind her fecret ftand,
The fly informer minutes ev'ry fault,

And her dread diary with horror fills.
Not the grofs act alone employs her pen;
She reconnoitres Fancy's airy band,

A watchful foe! The formidable spy,
Lift'ning, o'erhears the whispers of our camp:
Our dawning purposes of heart explores,
And fteals our embryos of iniquity.
As all rapacious ufurers conceal

Their doomfday-book from all-confuming heirs;
Thus, with indulgence moft fevere, fhe treats
Us fpendthrifts of ineftimable Time;
Unnoted, notes each moment mifapply'd;

In leaves more durable than leaves of brass,
Writes our whole hiftory; which Death shall read
In ev'ry pale delinquent's private ear;

And Judgment publish; publish to more worlds
Than this; and endless age in groans refound.
Lorenzo, fuch that fleeper in thy breaft!
Such is her flumber; and her vengeance fuch
For flighted counfel; fuch thy future peace!
And think'ft thou ftill thou can't be wife too foon?
But why on Time fo lavish is my song?
On this great theme kind Nature keeps a fchcol.

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