Time’s thievish progress to eternity;
Look, what thy memory cannot contain,
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shall find
Those children nursed delivered from thy brain
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
These offices so oft as thou wilt look,
Will profit thee, and much enrich thy book.
Shakspere.
But what strange art, what magic can dispose
The troubled mind to change its native woes,