On Time
Fly
envious
Time,
till
thou
run
out
thy
race,
Call
on
the
lazy
leaden-stepping
hours,
Whose
speed
is
but
the
heavy
Plummets
pace;
And
glut
thy
self
with
what
thy
womb
devours,
Which
is
no
more
then
what
is
false
and
vain,
And
meerly
mortal
dross;
So
little
is
our
loss,
So
little
is
thy
gain.
For
when
as
each
thing
bad
thou
hast
entomb'd,
And
last
of
all,
thy
greedy
self
consum'd,
Then
long
Eternity
shall
greet
our
bliss
With
an
individual
kiss;
And
Joy
shall
overtake
us
as
a
flood,
When
every
thing
that
is
sincerely
good
And
perfectly
divine,
With
Truth,
and
Peace,
and
Love
shall
ever
shine
About
the
supreme
Throne
Of
him,
t'whose
happy-making
sight
alone,
When
once
our
heav'nly-guided
soul
shall
clime,
Then
all
this
Earthy
grosnes
quit,
Attir'd
with
Stars,
we
shall
for
ever
sit,
Triumphing
over
Death,
and
Chance,
and
thee
O
Time.