So could I touch thefe Themes, as might obtain Thine Ear? nor leave thy Heart quite difengag'd, The good Deed would delight me; half-imprefs On my dark Cloud an Iris; and from Grief, Call Glory-Doft thou mourn PHILANDER'S Fate? I know thou fay'ft it; Says thy Life the fame ?. He mourns the Dead, who lives as they defire. Where is that Thrift, that Avarice of TIME, (O glorious Avarice !) Thought of Death infpires, As rumour'd Robberies endear our Gold? O Time! than Gold more facred; more a Load Than Lead, to Fools; and Fools reputed Wise. What Moment granted Man without Account What Years are fquander'd, Wildom's Debt unpaid? Our Wealth in Days all due to that Difcharge. Hafte, hafte, He lies in wait, He's at the Door, Infidious Death! fhould his ftrong Hand arreft," No Compofition fets the Pris'ner free. Eternity's inexorable Chain

Fast binds; and Vengeance claims the full Arrear.

How late I fhudder'd on the Brink! how late
Life call'd for her laft Refuge in Despair!
That Time is mine, O MEAD! to Thee I owe;
Fain would I pay thee with Eternity.
But ill my Genius answers my Defire;
My fickly Song is mortal, past thy Cure.
Accept the Will; It dies not with my Strain.

For what calls thy Disease, LORENZO ! Not
For Efculapian, but for Moral Aid.
Thou think'ft it Folly to be wife too soon.
Youth is not rich in Time; it may be, poor.
Part with it as with Money, fparing; pay
No Moment, but in Purchase of its Worth ;

And what its Worth, afk Death-beds; they can tell.

Part with it as with Life, reluctant; big

With holy Hope of nobler Time to come;

Time higher-aim'd, ftill nearer the great Mark
Of Men and Angels; Virtue more divine.

Is this our Duty, Wisdom, Glory, Gain?
(Thefe Heav'n benign in vital Union binds)]
And fport we like the Natives of the Bough,
When vernal Suns infpire? Amufement reigns
Man's great Demand: To trifle is to live:
And is it then a Trifle, too, to die?-

Thou fay'ft I preach, LORENZO ! 'Tis confeft.
What, if for once, I preach thee quite awake?
Who wants Amusement in the Flame of Battle?
Is it not Treafon, to the Soul immortal,
Her Foes in Arms, Eternity the Prize?
Will Toys amufe, when Med'cines cannot cure?
When Spirits ebb, when Life's inchanting Scenes
Their Luftre lose, and leffen in our Sight,
(As Lands, and Cities with their glitt'ring Spires,
To the poor shatter'd Bark, by fudden Storm
Thrown off to Sea, and foon to perish there)

Will Toys amufe?-No: Thrones will then be Toys,
And Earth and Skies feem Duft upon the Scale.

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 ftraw-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, ftill be Thine;
This cancels thy Complaint at once; This leaves
In Act no Trifle, and no Blank in Time.
This greatens, fills, immortalizes All;
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! ev'ry Moment Pays.
If nothing more than Purpose in thy Power;
Thy Purpose firm, is equal to the Deed:

Who

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 in
Heaven.

On all-important Time, through ev'ry Age,

Tho' much, and warm, the Wife 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 fpoke, as if deputed by Mankind;
So fhould all speak: So Reafon fpeaks in All:
For the foft Whispers of that God in Man,
Why fly to Folly, why to Frenzy fly,
For Rescue from the Bleffing we poffefs?
Time, the Supreme !-Time is Eternity;
Pregnant with all Eternity can give;
Pregnant with all, that makes Arch-angels fmile.
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, thankless, inconfiftent Man!
Like Children babbling 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 lafh 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 tow'rds the Precipice of Death;
Death, most our Dread; Death thus more dreadful made ;
O what a Riddle of Abfurdity!

Leijure is Pain; 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.
We cry for Mercy to the next Amusement;
The next Amusement mortgages our Fields
Slight Inconvenience!. Prifons hardly frown,.
From hateful Time if Prifons, fet us free.
Yet when Death kindly tenders us Relief,
We call him cruel; Years to Moments shrink,
Ages to Years. The Telescope is turn'd.
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 paft by; what then is seen,
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 juft, their Cause and Cure explore.
Not short Heaven's Bounty, boundlefs our Expence;
No Niggard, Nature; Men are Prodigals.

We wafte, not use our Time; we breathe, not live.
Time wafted is Existence, u'dis Life..

And bare Existence, Man, to live ordain'd,
Wrings, and oppreffes with enormous Weight.
And why? fince Time was giv'n for Use, not Waste,
Injoin'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; Wafte, 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 Eafe..
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 Soul is on a Rack; the Rack of Reft,

To Souls moft 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 Tafteless! 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 smiles an Angel; or a Fury frowns.
Nor Death, nor Life, delight us. If Time past,
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 honest Aim,

At once he draws the Sting of Life and Death;
He walks with Nature; and her Paths are Peace.

Our Error's Cause 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 againft, 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