Dost thou lament that life, urg'd-on too quickly,
Rolls round its course in hasting revolution?
Dost blame the thrifty gods, when thou thyself art
Lavish of lifetime?
What thyself wastest, mourn'st thou if it perish?
Dost drive it from thee, but deplore it going?
Is life thy servant? Sooth, a very servant
Turn'd off departeth.
Life's stream is fleeting--I confess it--always;
But once let Pleasure yield an easy incline,
With headlong wave and with more fleeting current
Onward it glideth.
Sleep, the thief, closing drowsy eyelids, snatcheth
One mighty portion; while as large a portion
Pleasure, the robber, carries off unchalleng'd--
Time's precious gold-dust.
Thou for thyself a thousand deaths createst;
And the more lifetimes thou dost spend in folly,
So many more in lieu of them demandest;
Wasting and wanting. R. WI.