16
The Complaint.
Night 2.
So could I touch these themes, as might obtain
Thine Ear, nor leave thy Heart quite disengag'd,
The good Deed would delight me; half-impress
On my dark cloud an Iris; and from Grief
Call Glory—Dost thou mourn Philander's Fate?
I know thou say'st it: Says thy Life the same?
He mourns the Dead, who lives as they desire.
Where is that Thrift, that Avarice of TIME,
(O glorious Avarice!) Thought of Death inspires,
As rumour'd Robberies endear our Gold?
O Time! than Gold more sacred; more a Load
Than Lead, to Fools; and Fools reputed Wise.
What Moment granted Man without Account?
What Years are squander'd, Wisdom's Debt unpaid?
Our Wealth in Days all due to that Discharge.
Haste, haste, He lies in wait, He's at the Door,
Insidious Death! should his strong Hand arrest,
No Composition sets the Pris'ner free.
Eternity's inexorable Chain
Fast binds; and Vengeance claims the full Arrear.
How late I shudder'd on the Brink! how late
Life call'd for her last 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 Desire;
My sickly Song is mortal, past thy Cure.
Accept the will;—That dies not with my Strain.
For what calls thy disease, Lorenzo! Not
For Esculapian, but for Moral Aid.
Thou think'st it Folly to be wise too soon.
Youth is not rich in Time; it may be, poor.
Part with it as with Money, sparing; pay
No Moment, but in Purchase of its Worth;
And what its Worth, ask Death-beds; they can tell.
Part with it as with Life, reluctant; big
Thine Ear, nor leave thy Heart quite disengag'd,
The good Deed would delight me; half-impress
On my dark cloud an Iris; and from Grief
Call Glory—Dost thou mourn Philander's Fate?
I know thou say'st it: Says thy Life the same?
He mourns the Dead, who lives as they desire.
Where is that Thrift, that Avarice of TIME,
(O glorious Avarice!) Thought of Death inspires,
As rumour'd Robberies endear our Gold?
O Time! than Gold more sacred; more a Load
Than Lead, to Fools; and Fools reputed Wise.
What Moment granted Man without Account?
What Years are squander'd, Wisdom's Debt unpaid?
Our Wealth in Days all due to that Discharge.
Haste, haste, He lies in wait, He's at the Door,
Insidious Death! should his strong Hand arrest,
No Composition sets the Pris'ner free.
Eternity's inexorable Chain
Fast binds; and Vengeance claims the full Arrear.
How late I shudder'd on the Brink! how late
Life call'd for her last 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 Desire;
My sickly Song is mortal, past thy Cure.
Accept the will;—That dies not with my Strain.
For what calls thy disease, Lorenzo! Not
For Esculapian, but for Moral Aid.
Thou think'st it Folly to be wise too soon.
Youth is not rich in Time; it may be, poor.
Part with it as with Money, sparing; pay
No Moment, but in Purchase of its Worth;
And what its Worth, ask Death-beds; they can tell.
Part with it as with Life, reluctant; big
With
