Dost thou lament that life, urg'd-on too quickly, Rolls round its course in hasting revolution? Dost blame the thrifty gods, when thou thyself art Lavish of lifetime? What thyself wastest, mourn'st thou if it perish? Dost drive it from thee, but deplore it going? Is life thy servant? Sooth, a very servant Turn'd off departeth. Life's stream is fleeting--I confess it--always; But once let Pleasure yield an easy incline, With headlong wave and with more fleeting current Onward it glideth. Sleep, the thief, closing drowsy eyelids, snatcheth One mighty portion; while as large a portion Pleasure, the robber, carries off unchalleng'd-- Time's precious gold-dust. Thou for thyself a thousand deaths createst; And the more lifetimes thou dost spend in folly, So many more in lieu of them demandest; Wasting and wanting. R. WI. DE SANGUINE MARTYRUM. Felices, properatis io, properatis, et altam Vicistis gyro sub breviore viam. Vos per non magnum vestri mare sanguinis illuc Cymba tulit nimiis non operosa notis, Quo nos tam lento sub remigio luctantes Ducit inexhausti vis male fida freti. Nos mora, nos longi consumit inertia lethi; In ludum mortis luxuriemque sumus. Nos aevo et senio et latis permittimur undis; Spargimur in casus, porrigimur furiis. Nos miseri sumus ex amplo spatioque perimus; In nos inquirunt fata, probantque manus; Ingenium fati sumus, ambitioque malorum. Conatus mortis consiliumque sumus. In vitae multo multae patet area mortis[95] . . . . . Non vitam nobis numerant, quot viximus anni: Vita brevis nostra est; sit licet acta diu. Vivere non longum est, quod longam ducere vitam: Res longa in vita saepe peracta brevi est. Nec vos tam vitae Deus in compendia misit, Quam vetuit vestrae plus licuisse neci. Accedit vitae quicquid decerpitur aevo, Atque illo brevius, quo citius morimur. TRANSLATION. MARTYRS.