Poems | ||
On the sight of a Clock.
How fruitlesse our designes would prove, if weShould be possest with so much vanitie,
As with our fraile endeavours, to assay
To stop the winged houres in their way?
Or fondly seek to chaine up Time, and try
To make him with our wild desires comply,
Since leaden plummets hung upon his feet,
Not clog we see, but make his pace more fleet.
Poems | ||