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Fly, envious
Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy
leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy
plummet's pace;
And glut thyself with what thy womb
devours,
Which is no more than what is false and
vain,
And merely mortal dross;
So little is our
loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when as each
thing bad thou hast intombed,
And last of all thy
greedy self consumed,
Then long Eternity shall greet
our bliss
With an individual kiss,
And Joy shall
overtake us as a flood;
When every thing that is
sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With truth,
and peace, and love, shall ever shine
About the
supreme throne
Of Him, t' whose happy-making sight
alone
When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall climb,
Then, all this earthly grossness quit,
Attired with
stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death,
and Chance, and thee, O Time.
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