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;
At least, their own; their future selves applaud;
How excellent that life they ne’er will lead!
Time lodged in their own hands is folly’s vails;[5]
That lodged in fate’s, to wisdom they consign;
The thing they can’t but purpose, they postpone; 410