“He who defers his work from day to day,
Does on a river’s brink expecting stay,
’Till the whole stream which stopt him shall be gone,
Which, as it runs, for ever will run on.”
Indolence is like a stream which flows slowly on, but yet it undermines
every virtue; it rusts the mind, and gives a tincture to every
action of one’s life, the term of which does not allow time for long
protracted deliberations; and yet how many waste more of their time
in idly considering which of two affairs to begin first, than would
have ended them both? To-morrow is still the fatal time when all is
to be done; to-morrow comes, it goes, and still indolence pleases
itself with the shadow, while it loses the substance: and thus men pass
through life like a bird through the air, and leave no track behind
them, unmindful that the present time alone is ours, and should be
managed with judicious care, since we cannot secure a moment to come,
nor recal one that is past. It is no matter how many good qualities
the mind may be possessed of; they all lie dormant if we want the
necessary vigour and resolution to draw them forth; for this slumber
of the mind leaves no difference between the greatest genius and the
meanest understanding. Neither the mind nor the body can be active and
vigorous without proper exertion, and trouble springs from idleness,
and grievous toil from useless ease; therefore, “whatsoever thy hand
findeth to do, do it with all thy might, for there is no work, nor
device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave, whither thou goest.”
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