How excellent that life they ne’er will lead!
Time lodg’d in their own hands is Folly’s vails:
That lodg’d in Fate’s, to Wisdom they consign;
The thing they can’t but purpose, they postpone.
’Tis not in Folly, not to scorn a fool;
And scarce in human Wisdom to do more.
All Promise is poor dilatory man,
And that through every stage. When young, indeed,
In full content we, sometimes, nobly rest,
Un-anxious for ourselves; and only wish,