Ere mingled with the streaming sands of life, By fate's inviolable oath is sworn 370 Deep silence, "where eternity begins." By nature's law, what may be, may be now; There's no prerogative in human hours. In human hearts what bolder thought can rise, Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn! Where is to-morrow? In another world. For numbers this is certain; the reverse Is sure to none; and yet on this perhaps, This peradventure, infamous for lies, As on a rock of adamant, we build 380 Our mountain hopes; spin out eternal schemes, As we the fatal sisters could out-spin, And, big with life's futurities, expire. Not even Philander had bespoke his shroud; Nor had he cause; a warning was denied. 385 How many fall as sudden, not as safe! As sudden, though for years admonish'd home. Of human ills the last extreme beware, Beware, Lorenzo! a slow sudden death. How dreadful that deliberate surprise! Be wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer; Next day the fatal precedent will plead; 392 Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life. Procrastination is the thief of time; Year after year it steals, till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene. If not so frequent, would not this be strange? That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still. Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears 400 The palm, "That all men are about to live," For ever on the brink of being born. All pay themselves the compliment to think They one day shall not drivel: and their pride On this reversion takes up ready praise; At least, their own; their future selves applaud; How excellent that life they ne'er will lead! Time lodged in their own hands is folly's vails;[5] That lodged in fate's, to wisdom they consign; The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone; 410 'Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool; And scarce in human wisdom to do more. All promise is poor dilatory man, And that through every stage: when young, indeed, In full content we, sometimes, nobly rest, Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish, As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; 419 At fifty, chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; In all the magnanimity of thought Resolves; and re-resolves; then dies the same. And why? Because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal, but themselves: Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread; But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close; where pass'd the shaft, no trace is found.