Of all the burdens man must bear, Time, seems most galling and severe: Beneath this grievous load oppress'd, We daily meet some friend distress'd.
"What can one do? I rose at nine: "Tis full six hours before we dine: Six hours! no earthly thing to do! Would I had dozed in bed till two."
A pamphlet is before him spread, And almost half a page is read;
Tired with the study of the day,
The fluttering sheets are toss'd away;
He opes his snuff-box, hums an air,
Then yawns, and stretches in his chair.
"Not twenty, by the minute hand!
Good gods!" says he, "my watch must stand!
How muddling 'tis on books to pore!
I thought I'd read an hour or more.
The morning, of all hours, I hate :
One can't contrive to rise too late."
To make the minutes faster run,
Then, too, his tiresome self to shun,
To the next coffee-house he speeds,
Takes up the news-some scraps he reads.
Sauntering from chair to chair, he trails;
Now drinks his tea, now bites his nails.
He spies a partner of his woe,
By chat, afflictions lighter grow;
Each other's grievances they share,
And thus their dreadful hours compare.
Says Tom, "Since all men must confess
That time lies heavy, more or less,
Why should it be so hard to get,
Till two, a party at piquet?
Play might relieve the lagging morn:
By cards, long wintry nights are borne.
Does not quadrille amuse the fair,
Night after night, throughout the year?
Vapours and spleen forgot, at play
They cheat uncounted hours away."
"My case," says Will, "then must be hard,
By want of skill from play debarr'd.
Courtiers kill time by various ways;
Dependance wears out half their days.
How happy these, whose time ne'er stands!
Attendance takes it off their hands.
Were it not for this cursed shower,
The Park had whiled away an hour.
At court, without or place or view,
I daily lose an hour or two,
It fully answers my design,
When I have pick'd up friends to dine;
The tavern makes our burden light—
Wine puts our time and care to flight.
At six (hard case!) they call to pay.
Where can one go? I hate the play.
From six till ten! unless in sleep,
One cannot spend the hours so cheap.
The comedy's no sooner done
But some assembly is begun;
Loitering from room to room I stray,
Converse, but nothing hear or say:
Quite tired, from fair to fair I roam—
So soon! I dread the thoughts of home.
From thence, to quicken slow-paced Night,
Again my tavern-friends invite:
Here, too, our early mornings pass,
Till drowsy sleep retards the glass."
Thus they their wretched life bemoan,
And make each other's case, their own.
Consider, friends, no hour rolls on
But something of your grief is gone.
Were you to schemes of business bred,
Did you the paths of learning tread,
Your hours, your days would fly too fast;
You'd then regret the minute past.
Time's fugitive and light as wind!1
"Tis indolence that clogs your mind.
That load from off your spirits shake,
mistake.
You'll own and grieve for your
Awhile, your thoughtless spleen suspend,
Then read, and (if you can) attend.
As Plutus, to divert his care,
Walk'd forth one morn to take the air,
Cupid o'ertook his strutting pace.
Each stared upon the stranger's face,
Till recollection set them right,
For each knew t' other but by sight.
After some complimental talk,
Time met them, bow'd, and join'd their walk :
Their chat on various subjects ran,
But most, what each had done for man.
Plutus assumes a haughty air,
Just like our purse-proud fellows here:
"Let kings," says he, "let cobblers tell,
Whose gifts among mankind excel.
Consider courts; what draws their train?
Think you 'tis loyalty, or gain?
That statesman hath the strongest hold,
Whose tool of politics is gold.2
By that, in former reigns, 'tis said,
The knave in power hath senates led:
(1) A very terse and striking allusion to the perishableness and record, of the hours, is upon the sun-dial at Gloucester Cathedral, "Pereunt et imputantur!" (2) "Quantum quisque suâ nummorum servat in arcâ Tantum habet et fidei."-JUVENAL, Sat. iii.
By that alone, he sway'd debates,
Enrich'd himself, and beggar'd states.1
Forego your boast. You must conclude
That's most esteem'd, that's most pursued.
Think, too, in what a woful plight
That wretch must live whose pocket's light.
Are not his hours by want deprest?
Penurious care corrodes his breast:
Without respect, or love, or friends,
His solitary day descends." 2
"You might," says Cupid, "doubt my parts,
My knowledge, too, in human hearts,
Should I the power of gold dispute,
Which great examples might confute.
I know, when nothing else prevails,
Persuasive money seldom fails;
That beauty, too, (like other wares,)
Its price, as well as conscience, bears.
Then marriage (as of late profess'd)
Is but a money-job at best.
Consent, compliance, may be sold;
But love's beyond the price of gold.
Smugglers there are who, by retail,
Expose what they call love to sale;
Such bargains are an arrant cheat:
You purchase flattery and deceit.
Those who true love have ever tried,
(The common cares of life supplied,)
No wants endure, no wishes make,
But every real joy partake.
"For money is the only pow'r
That all mankind fall down before."-HUDIBRAS. (2) The greatest sin in the world's sight is-poverty.
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