Go, wretched mortal, antedate the day,
Fill thee with care;
Work thyself mis'ries, in a perverse way,
Before they're there.
Enough for me the day's cares in the day,
The passing hour;
Enough the tears that daily, yea or nay,
In sorrow low'r.
I have no leisure thus to antedate
The coming woe,
Nor to-day darken with to-morrow's fate;
And so I go. G.
ANOTHER VERSION.
Wretch, to thy woes add not
to-morrow morn;
And haste not thou to
groan with ills unborn.
Each day's laments, each
hour's griefs, me suffice;
Each morn, noon, eve, with
rueful weeping eyes.
No leisure is to look for
griefs to be:
Stir not to-day to-morrow's
pains in me. A.
XXIV.
A telonio Matthaeus. Matt. ix. 9.
Ah satis, ah nimis est: noli ultra ferre magistrum,
Et lucro domino turpia colla dare.
Jam fuge; jam, Matthaee, feri fuge regna tyranni:
Inque bonam, felix i fugitive,[48] crucem.
Matthew called from the receipt of custom.
Enough, too much; no more a master's yoke
Endure, nor bow to lordly Lucre's stroke:
His service from thy slavish neck is broke.
Flee, Matthew, flee the cruel tyrant's sway,
And hie thee, like a happy runaway,
To the sweet cross that waits for thee to-day. R. Wi.