TO
Mr.
William
Blackbourn
.
Life
flies
too
fast
to
be
Wasted
.
1703.
Quae
tegit
canas
modo
Bruma
valles
Sole
vicinos
jaculante
montes
Deteget
rursum
—
Casimir
.
Lib.
2.
Od.
2.
I.
MARK
,
how
it
Snows
!
how
fast
the
Vally
fills
?
And
the
sweet
Groves
the
hoary
Garment
wear
;
Yet
the
Warm
Sun-Beams
bounding
from
the
Hills
Shall
melt
the
Vail
away
,
and
the
young
Green
appear
.
II
.
But
when
Old
Age
has
drop't
upon
your
Head
Her
Silver
Frost
,
there's
no
returning
Sun
;
Swift
rolls
our
Autumn
,
swift
our
Summer's
fled
,
When
Youth
,
and
Love
,
and
Spring
,
and
Golden
Joys
are
gone
.
III
.
Then
Cold
,
and
Winter
,
and
your
Aged
Snow
Stick
fast
upon
you
;
not
the
rich
Array
,
Nor
the
Green
Garland
,
nor
the
Rosy
Bough
Shall
cancel
or
conceal
the
Melancholy
Gray
.
IV
.
The
Chase
of
Pleasure
is
not
worth
the
Pains
,
While
the
Bright
Sands
of
Health
run
wasting
down
,
And
Honour
calls
you
from
the
softer
Scenes
To
sell
the
gaudy
Hour
for
Ages
of
Renown
.
V.
'Tis
but
one
Youth
and
short
that
we
can
have
,
And
one
Old
Age
dissolves
our
feeble
Frame
;
But
there's
a
Heavenly
Art
t'
elude
the
Grave
,
And
with
the
Heroe-Race
Immortal
Kindred
claim
.
VI
.
The
Man
that
has
his
Countries
Sacred
Tears
To
drop
upon
his
Herse
,
has
liv'd
his
Day
:
Thus
,
BLACKBOURN
,
we
should
leave
our
Names
our
Heirs
;
Old
Time
and
waning
Moons
sweep
all
the
rest
away
.