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the World against the present Time but only that it is present; why when hereafter comes to be present the Reason will be just the fame. So that thy present Unwillingness is so far from beirg a just Reason against it, that it is a good Reaibn the other Way; because thou art unwilling now, and like to be more so hereafter; if thou intendestto do it at all, thou shouldest set about it immediately, and without Delay. In Matters of great and necessary Concernment, and which must be done. there is no greater Argument of a weak and impotent Mind than Irresolution; to be undetermined where the Case is so plain, and the Neceisity so urgent; to be always about doing that which we are convinced must be done.
Vifluros agimus semfer, nee •vidimus unquam.
We are always intending to live a new Lift, but can never sind a Time to set about it. This is- as if a Man should put off eating and drinking and sleeping from one Day and Night to another, till he has starved and destroyed himself.
The hoary Fool, who many Days Has struggled with continued Sorrow,
Renews his Hope, and blindly lays The desperate Bett upon to-morrow.
To-morrow comes, 'tis Noon, 'tis Night, This Day like all the former flies;
Yet on he runs to seek Delight .■^morrow, 'till to-night he dies- Prior.
An Elegy lurttten in a Country Church-Yard.
THE Cursew tolls the Knell of parting Day,
Now fades the glimmering Landscape on the Sight,
Save where the Beetle wheels his drony Flight,
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled Tow'r
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret Bow'r,
Beneath those rugged Elms, that Yew Tree's Shade,
Each in his narrow Cell sor ever laid, ,
The rude Forefathers of the Hamlet sleep.
Thehreezy Call of Incense-breathing Morn,
The Cock's shrill Clarion, or the echoing Horn,
From them no more the blazing Hearth mail burn,
No Children run to lisp their Sire's Return,
K 3 Oft
Oft did the Harvest, to their Sickle Yield,
Their Furrow oft the stubborn Glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their Teams a-sield!
Let not Ambition mock their useful Toil,
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful Smile,
The Boast of Heraldry, the Pomp of Pow'r,
Await alike th' inevitable Hour,
The Paths of Glory lead but to the Grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
Where thro' the long-drawn Ifle, and fretted Vault
Can storied Urn or animated Bust .
Back to its Mansion call the fleeting Breath I Can Honour's Voice provoke the/dent Dust,
Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold Ear of Death >
Perhaps in this neglected Spot is laid
But Knowledge to their Eyes her ample Page
Chill Penury repreiVd their noble Rage,
Full many a Gem of purest Ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd Caves of Ocean bear;
Full many a Flower is born to blusti unseen,
Some Village Hampden, that with dauntless Breast
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his Country's Blood.
Th' Applause of list'ning Senates tp command,
To scatter Plenty o'er a smiling Land,
And read their Hist'ry in a Nation's.Eyes."
Their Lot sorbad: nor circumfciib'd alone
Their growing Virtues, but their. Crimes con-
Forbad to wade thro' -Slaughter to a Throne,
The struggling Pangs of conscious Truth to hide,
Or heap the Shrine of Luxury and Pride
Far from the madding Crowd's ignoble Strife,
Along the cool sequester'd Vale of Life
They kept the noiseless Tenor of their Way.
Vet ev'n these Bones from Insult to protect,
With uncouth Rhimes and shapeless Sculpture deck'd, Implores the paffing Tribute of a Sigh.
Their Name, their Years, fpelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The Place of Fame and Elegy supply r And many a holy Text around she strews.
To teach the rustic Moralist to die.
For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
Left the warm Precincts of the chearful Day,
On some sond Breast the parting Soul relief,
Ev'n from the Tomb the Voice of Nature cries,
For thee who mindful of th' unhononr'd Dead
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Haply some hoary-headed Swain may soy,
* Brushing with hasty Steps the Dews away
* To meet the Su N upon the Upland Lawn.
* There at the Foot ofyonder nodding Beech,
* That wreaths its old fantastic Roots so high,
* His listless Length at Noon-tide would he stretch,
'And pore upon the Brook that babbles by.