Of all the inconsistencies
For which men are to blame,
None, sure, are less excusable,
Than waste of precious time.

That human life is but a blink,
Men constantly complain;
Yet mark their conduct, and you'll think
They always would remain.

The children long for to be boys,
The boys for to be men,
And gladly would cancel the years,
Which lie the two between.

The Minor longs to be of age,
His freedom to obtain;
And, if he could, would gladly leap,
From twelve to twenty-one.

The weary Lab'rer, on the sun,
His eye does often fix,
And listens oft, with anxious ear,
To hear the clock strike six.

The Usurer would be well pleased,
Each hour away to cut,
Which lies between the time he lends
And should his int'rest get.

The Lover would be happy still,
To strike those moments off,
Which do so slowly creep away,
Before he meet his Love.

Ev'n serveral hours of ev'ry day
Hang heavy on our hands,
While we do fret, and pine, and wish,
That they were at an end.

Thus foolish man, through all his life,
'S tormented day and night:
Some future period still he hopes
Will yield him more delight.

That comes and goes, yet never does
At all the matter mend,
Till hoary hairs, and wrinkled brow,
Proclaim th' approaching end!

Envious time is on the wing,
And flies swift as a post;
O! seize the moments as they run!
The hour that's past is lost!

The present time is only our's;
The future's yet unborn;
The past is gone, for ever gone!
And we its loss may mourn!


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