 | Philosophicall fancies |  |
An Epistle to Time.
Swift, ever-moving Time, I write to thee,To crave thy pardon, if ill spent thou be.
But I did chuse this way, thinking it best:
For by my writing I do none molest.
I injure none, nor yet disturb their way,
I slander none, nor any one betray.
If I do wast thee in a musing thought,
Yet I take paines, my Braines constantly wrought.
For in three weeks begun, and finisht all
These Philosophicall Fancies, which I call.
If thou thinkst much, that I should spend thee so,
To write of that, I can but guesse, not know;
In wanton waies, which some call Merriment.
Let me tell thee, this better pleaseth me,
Then if I spent thee in fine Pageantry.
| Philosophicall fancies | |