Redeem we Time ?---its Lofs we dearly buy: What pleads Lorenzo for his high-priz'd Sports? He pleads Time's numerous Blanks; he loudly pleads The straw-like Trifles on Life's common Stream. From whom those Blanks and Trifles, but from Thee? No Blank, no Trifle Nature made, or meant. Virtue, or purpos'd Virtue still be Thine;
This cancels thy Complaint at once; This leaves
In Act no Trifle, and no Blank in Time.
This greatens, fills, immortalizes Áll;
This, the bleft Art of turning all to Gold;
This, the good Heart's prerogative to raise
A royal tribute, from the poorest Hours.
Immenfe Revenue! every Moment Pays.
If nothing more than Purpofe in thy power,
Thy purpose firm, is equal to the Deed :
Who does the beft his circumftance allows,
Does well, acts nobly; Angels could no more.
Our outward Act, indeed, admits restraint;
'Tis not in Things o'er Thought to domineer; Guard well thy Thought; our Thoughts are heard
On all-important Time, through every Age,
Tho' much, and warm, theWise have urg'd; the Man
Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an Hour.
"I've loft a Day"---The Prince who nobly cry'd,
Had been an Emperor without his Crown;
Of Rome? fay, rather, Lord of human race;
He spoke, as if deputed by Mankind.
So fhould all speak: fo Reafon fpeaks in All:
From the soft Whispers of that God in man,
Why fly to Folly, why to Frenzy fly,
For Rescue from the Blessing we poffefs?
Time, the Supreme !-----Time is Eternity;
Pregnant with all Eternity can give;
Pregnant with all, that makesArch-angels smile:
Who murders Time, He crushes in the Birth
A Pow'r Etherial, only not Ador'd.
Ah! how unjust to Nature, and Himself,
Is thoughtless, thanklefs, inconfiftent Man?
Like Children babling nonsense in their sports,
We cenfure Nature for a Span too short;
That Span too fhort, we tax as tedious too;
Torture Invention, all Expedients tire,
To lash the ling'ring moments into speed;
And whirl us (happy riddance!) from ourselves.
Art, brainless Art! our furious Charioteer
(For Nature's voice unftifled would recall)
Drives headlong towards the precipice of Death;
Death, moft our Dread; Death thus more dreadful
O what a Riddle of Abfurdity?
Leifure is Pains takes off our Chariot-wheels,
How heavily we drag the Load of Life?
Bleft Leifure is our Curfe, like that of Cain
It makes us wander; wander earth around
To fly that Tyrant, Thought. As Atlas groan'd
The world beneath, we groan beneath an Hour.
cry for Mercy to the next Amusement;
The next Amusement mortgages onr fields;
Slight inconvenience! Prifons hardly frown,
From hateful Time, if Prisons fet us free.
Yet when Death kindly tenders us Relief,
We call him cruel; Years to Moments fhrink,
Ages to Years. The Telescope is turn'd:
To man's false opticks (from his Folly false)
Time, in advance, behind him hides his Wings,
And feems to creep, decrepit with his Age;
Behold him, when past by; what then is seen
But his broad Pinions swifter than the Winds?
And all Mankind, in Contradiction ftrong,
Ruefull, aghaft! cry out on his Career.
Leave to thy Foes thefe Errors, and these Ills; To Nature juft, their Cause and Cure explore. Not fhort Heaven's Bounty, boundless our Expence;
No Niggard, Nature; Men are Prodigals.
As bold Alphonfus threat'ned in his Pride,
We throw away our Suns, as made for Sport,
And not to light us, on our way to Scenes
Whose Luftre turns their Luftre into Shade.
We wafte, not use our Time: we breathe, not live.
Time wafted is Existence, us'd is Life:
And bare Existence, Man, to live ordain'd,
Wrings, and oppreffes with enormous weight.
And why? fince Time was given for Use, not Waste,
Enjoyn'd to fly, with Tempeft, Tide, and Stars,
To keep his Speed, nor ever wait for Man;
Time's Ufe was doom'd a Pleasure; Waste, a Pain;
That Man might feel his Error, if unseen;
And, feeling, fly to Labour for his Cure:
Not, blundering, fplit on Idlenefs, for ease.
Life's Cares are Comforts; fuch by Heaven design'd;
He that has none, must make them, or be wretched. Cares are Employments; and without Employ
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