Thou say'st I preach, Lorenzo! 'tis confess'd. 62 What, if for once, I preach thee quite awake? Who wants amusement in the flame of battle? Is it not treason to the soul immortal, Her foes in arms, eternity the prize? Will toys amuse, when medicines cannot cure? When spirits ebb, when life's enchanting scenes Their lustre lose, and lessen in our sight, As lands, and cities with their glittering spires, 70 To the poor shatter'd bark, by sudden storm Thrown off to sea, and soon to perish there? Will toys amuse? No: thrones will then be toys, And earth and skies seem dust upon the scale. Redeem we time?--its loss we dearly buy. What pleads Lorenzo for his high-prized sports? He pleads time's numerous blanks; he loudly pleads The straw-like trifles on life's common stream. From whom those blanks and trifles, but from thee? No blank, no trifle, nature made, or meant. 80 Virtue, or purposed virtue, still be thine; This cancels thy complaint at once, this leaves In act no trifle, and no blank in time. This greatens, fills, immortalizes all; This, the bless'd art of turning all to gold; This, the good heart's prerogative to raise A royal tribute from the poorest hours; Immense revenue! every moment pays. 88 If nothing more than purpose in thy power; Thy purpose firm, is equal to the deed: Who does the best his circumstance allows, Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more. Our outward act, indeed, admits restraint; 'Tis not in things o'er thought to domineer; Guard well thy thought; our thoughts are heard in heaven. On all-important time, through every age, Though much, and warm, the wise have urged; the man Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an hour. "I've lost a day"--the prince who nobly cried Had been an emperor without his crown; 100 Of Rome? say, rather, lord of human race: He spoke, as if deputed by mankind. So should all speak; so reason speaks in all: From the soft whispers of that God in man, Why fly to folly, why to phrensy fly, For rescue from the blessing we possess? Time the supreme!--Time is eternity; Pregnant with all eternity can give; Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile. Who murders time, he crushes in the birth 110 A power ethereal, only not adored. Ah! how unjust to Nature, and himself, Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man! Like children babbling nonsense in their sports, We censure Nature for a span too short; That span too short, we tax as tedious too; Torture invention, all expedients tire, To lash the lingering moments into speed, And whirl us (happy riddance!) from ourselves. Art, brainless Art! our furious charioteer 120 (For Nature's voice unstifled would recall),