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John Milton, “On time“ Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race, Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets’ pace; And glut thyself with what thy womb devours, Which is no more than what is false and vain, And merely mortal dross; So little is our loss, So little is thy gain. For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb’d, And last of all, thy greedy self consum’d, Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss With an individual kiss; And Joy shall overtake ...
