What years are squandered, wisdom’s debt unpaid!
Our wealth in days all due to that discharge.
Young.
Time as he passes us, has a dove’s wing,
Unroil’d and swift, and of a silken sound;
But the World’s Time, is Time in masquerade!
Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged,
With motley plumes; and where the peacock shews
His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red
With spots quadrangular of diamond form,