Our yesterday’s to-morrow now is gone, And still a new to-morrow does come on; We by to-morrows draw up all our store, Till the exhausted well can yield no more. And now, I think, I am even with you, for your _otium cum dignitate_ and _festina lente_, and three or four other more of your new Latin sentences: if I should draw upon you all my forces out of Seneca and Plutarch upon this subject, I should overwhelm you, but I leave those as _triarii_ for your next charges. I shall only give you now a light skirmish out of an epigrammatist, your special good friend, and so, _vale_. MART. LIB. 5, EP. 59. To-morrow you will live, you always cry; In what far country does this morrow lie, That ’tis so mighty long ere it arrive? Beyond the Indies does this morrow live? ’Tis so far-fetched, this morrow, that I fear ’Twill be both very old and very dear. To-morrow I will live, the fool does say; To-day itself’s too late, the wise lived yesterday. MART. LIB. 2, EP. 90. Wonder not, sir (you who instruct the town In the true wisdom of the sacred gown), That I make haste to live, and cannot hold Patiently out, till I grow rich and old. Life for delays and doubts no time does give, None ever yet made haste enough to live. Let him defer it, whose preposterous care Omits himself, and reaches to his heir, Who does his father’s bounded stores despise, And whom his own, too, never can suffice: My humble thoughts no glittering roofs require, Or rooms that shine with ought be constant fire. We ill content the avarice of my sight With the fair gildings of reflected light: Pleasures abroad, the sport of Nature yields Her living fountains, and her smiling fields: And then at home, what pleasure is ’t to see A little cleanly, cheerful family? Which if a chaste wife crown, no less in her Than fortune, I the golden mean prefer. Too noble, nor too wise, she should not be, No, nor too rich, too fair, too fond of me. Thus let my life slide silently away, With sleep all night, and quiet all the day. OF MYSELF.