Not fhort Heaven's Bounty, boundlefs our Expence;
No Niggard, Nature; Men are Prodigals.
We waste, not use our Time; we breathe, not live.
Time wasted is Existence, us'd is Life.
And bare Existence, Man, to live ordain'd,
Wrings, and oppresses with enormous Weight.
And why? fince Time was giv'n for Use, not Waste,
Injoin'd to fly, with Tempest, 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 unfeen;
And, feeling, fly to Labour for his Cure;
Not, blund'ring, fplit on Idleness, for Ease.
Life's Cares are Comforts; fuch by Heav'n design'u;
He that has none, must make them, or be wretched.
Cares are Employments; and without Employ
The Soul is on a Rack; the Rack of Rest,
To Souls most adverfe: 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 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 Bofom-broil;
We push Time from us, and we wish Him back;
Lavish of Luftrums, and yet fond of Life;
Life we think long, and fhort; Death feek, and fhun:
Body and Soul, like peevish Man and Wife,
United jar, and yet are loth to part.
Oh the dark Days of Vanity? while Here, How Tasteless! and how Terrible, when gone! Gone? they ne'er go; when paft, they haunt us ftill: The Spirit walks of ev'ry Day deceas'd,
And finiles 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 please ordain'd,
Time us'd. The Man who confecrates his Hours
By vig'rous Effort, and an honeft Aim,
At once he draws the Sting 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, unfeen,
He looks on Time as nothing. Nothing else
Is truly Man's; 'tis Fortune's.-Time's a God.
Thou haft ne'er heard of Time's Omnipotence;
For, or against, what Wonders can He do!
And will: To ftand blank Neuter He difdains.
Not on thofe 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 thoufand Worlds;
Not on thofe 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 fhape
His ample Pinions, fwift as darted Flame,
To gain his Goal, to reach his antient Rest,
And join anew Eternity his Sire;
In his Immutability to neft,
When Worlds, that count his Circles now, unhing'd,
(Fate the loud Signal founding) headlong rush
To timeless Night, and Chaos, whence they rofe.
Why fpur 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 soon
In fad Divorce this double Flight must end:
And then, where are we? where, LORENZO! then,
Thy Sports? thy Pomps-I grant thee, in a State
Not Unambitious, in the ruffled Shroud.
Thy Parian Tomb's triumphant Arch beneath.
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 fpin,
(As Sifter Lilies might) if not fo wife
As Solomon, more fumptuous to the Sight!
Ye Delicate! who nothing can fupport,
Yourselves most insupportable for whom
The winter Rofe must blow, the 8un put on
A brighter Beam in Leo; filky-foft
Favonius breathe still softer, or be chid;
And Other Worlds fend Odours, Sauce, and Song,
And Robes, and Notions, fram'd in foreign Looms! LORENZOS of our Age, who deem
One Moment unamus'd, a Mifery
Not made for feeble Man! who call aloud
For ev'ry Bawble, drivel'd o'er by Sense;
For Rattles, and Conceits of ev'ry Caft,
For Change of Follies, and Relays of Joy,
To drag your Patient through the tedious Length
Of a short Winter's Day- fay, Sages! fay,
Wit's Oracles! fay, Dreamers of gay Dreams!
How will you weather an eternal Night,
Where fuch Expedients fail?
O Treach'rous Confcience! while fhe feems to fleep On Rofe and Myrtle, lull'd with Siren Song;
While she seems, nodding o'er her Charge, to drop On headlong Appetite the flacken'd Rein,
And give us up to Licence, unrecall'd,
Unmarkt;-See, from behind her fecret Stand,
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 steals our Embryos of Iniquity.
As all-rapacious Ufurers conceal
Their Doomsday-book from all-confuming Heirs
Thus, with Indulgence, moft fevere, She 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 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 Sleeper in thy Breast!
Such is her Slumber; and her Vengeance fuck
For flighted Counsel; fuch thy future Peace!
And think'st thou ftill thou canst be wife too foon?
But why on Time fo lavish is my Song?
On this great Theme kind Nature keeps a School,
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