B
E wise to day ; 'tis madness to defer;

Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on till wisdom is push'd out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals till all are fied,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears
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.

DR. YOUNG

S E C T. XIX.

ON IRRESOLUTION.

A

T thirty man suspects himself a fool ;

Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
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

Strikes thro' their wounded hearts the sudden dread;
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon close ; where past the shaft, no trace is found.
As from the wing no scar the sky retains,
The parted wave no furrow from the keel,
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
Ev'n with the tender tear, which nature sheds
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave.

Dr. Young.

S E C T. XX

ON TIME.

TIME is eternity; pregnant with all

Eternity can give ; pregnant with all
That makes archangels smile. Who murders time,
He crushes in the birth a pow'r ethereal,
Only not ador'd!

Moments seize ;
Heav'n's on their wing : A moment we may wish,
When worlds want wealth to buy. Bid day stand still;
Bid him drive back his car, and reimport
The period past, regive the given hour.

DR. YOUNG.

S E C T XXI.

ON LIFE'S STAGE.

LIFE's little stage is a small eminence,
Inch-high the grave above ; that home of man,

Where

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Where dwells the multitude : We gaze around;
We read their monuments ; we figh, and while
We figh, we fink; and are what we deplor'd ;
Lamenting or lamented, all our lot!

Dr. Young,

JUDGE before friendship, then confide till death a

A friend is worth all hazards we can run,
Poor is the friendless master of a world :
A world in purchase for a friend is gain.
Friendship’s the wine of life ; but friendship new
Is neither strong nor pure.

Know'st thou what a friend contains ?
As bees mixt nectar draw from fragrant flowers,
So men from friendship, wisdom and delight.

Hast thou a friend to set thy mind abroach? Good fenfe will stagnate. Thoughts shut up want airs And spoil, like bales unopen’d to the fun. Had thought been all, sweet speech had been deny'd ; Speech, thought's canal ! speech, thought’s criterion.

DR. YOUNG

S E C T. XXIII.

ON COVETOUSNESS.

MA

AN wants but little ; nor that little, long ;

How foon must he refign his very duft, Which frugal nature lent him for an hour !

O my

O my coevals! remnants of yourselves ! Poor human ruins, tottring o'er the grave ! Shall

we, shall aged men, like aged trees, Strike deeper their vile root, and closer cling, Still more enamour'd of this wretched foil ? Shall our pale, wither'd hands, be still stretch'd out, Trembling at once with eagerness and age ? With ar'rice and convulfions grasping hard ? Grasping at air ! for what has earth beside ?

DR. YOUNG,

SECT.

XXIV.

ON THE OMNIPRESENCE OF THE DEITY.

My proftrate foul adores the present God :

Praise I a distant Deity ? He tunes my voice, The nerve that writes sustains. Wrap'd in his being, I resound his praise.

The nameless He, whose nod is Nature's birth, And Nature's shield the shadow of his hand ; Her diffolution his fufpended smile ! The great first, laft! Pavilion'd high he fits ; Looks down on all that foars, and spans immensity! Though night unnumber'd worlds unfolds to view, Boundless creation ! what art thou? A beam, A inere effluvium of his majesty.

Down to earth's centre should I send my thought, Thro’ beds of glittering ore, and glowing gems, Their beggar'd blaze wants lustre for my lay ; Goes out in darkness! If on tow'ring wing, I send it thro’ the boundless vault of itars!

The

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The stars, tho' rich, what dross their gold to thee !
Great! good! wife! wonderful ! eternal king !

DR. YOUNG

S E C T. XXV.

TO A LADY PLAYING UPON A LUTE.

THE trembling ftrings about her fingers crowd,

'HE

And tell their joy for every kiss aloud : Small force there needs to make them tremble so, Touch'd by that hand, who would not tremble too? Here Love takes stand, and while she charms the ear, Empties his quiver on the listening deer : Music so softens and disarms the mind, That not one arrow does resistance find : Thus the fair tyrant celebrates the prize, And aids herself the triumph of her eyes. So Nero once, with harp in hand, survey'd His flaming Rome, and as that burn'd he play'd.

WALLER.

O Liberty ! thou Goddess heavenly bright!

Profuse of bliss and pregnant with delight !
Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign,
And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train.
Eas'd of her load, subjection grows more light,
And poverty looks cheerful in thy fight :

Thou