Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race;
Call on the long, leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's face;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain:
For, when as each thing bad thou hast entombed.
And last of all thy greedy self consumed,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When everything that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With truth, and peace and love, shall ever
Shine
About the supreme throne
Of him to whose happy making, sight alone
When once our heavenly guarded souls shall
climb
Then, all this earthly grossness quit,
Attired with stars we shall forever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee
O Time!
Thousands are annually sent to an untimely grave by the habitual use of physic, or cathartic drugs, under the fatal delusion that they cleanse the blood.
