Of all the burdens man must bear, Time seems most galling and severe: Beneath this grievous load oppressed, We daily meet some friend distressed. '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; _10 Tired with the study of the day, The fluttering sheets are tossed 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.' _20 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. _30 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.' _40 'My case,' says Will, 'then must be hard By want of skill from play debarred. Courtiers kill time by various ways; Dependence 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; _50 It fully answers my design, When I have picked 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; _60 Loit'ring 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. _70 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!