University of Virginia Library

A Translation of the first Epistle of Seneca to Lucilius.

Hold on, brave friend, in those good purposes
Thy last did mention; by such means as these
Live to thy self; the time that heretofore
So many ways was lost, now lose no more.
Our time, some's stoln (believe me what I say)
Some fairlier seems withdrawn, some slips away.
But of all ways none is a worse mispence,
Than losing it by sloth and negligence.
View with attentive eyes the most of men,
With whom thou dost converse, and tell me then,
Is not their life, much of it, loosely spent,
Idly yet more, all on impertinent
And trifling things is lost? Where canst thou name
A man that prizes time? that sets the same
Value on Hours as Gold, who every day
Perceives he's dying, whilst days wear away?
'Tis a mistake to think death yet to come
As all at once, which always works, and some
Of it's already past: for all the breath
We have, expir'd is in the hands of death.
Act as thou speakest, then with all thy pow'r
Lay hold on and improve each present hour.
So on to morrow needst thou not depend,
If thou to day hast wisdom well to spend.
All things without us can't be call'd our own,
But Time is truely ours, and Time alone.
This fleeting slipp'ry thing doth nature give,
As riches, to possess whilst here we live.
Yet of this precious treasure eas'ly may
Who ever will, vast portions steal away
Strange folly this! that things of little cost
Or worth, things easily repair'd when lost,
Should be so priz'd, that men bestow'd with such
Mean things as these, themselves they reckon much
Obliged to the Donor, but we hear
No thanks for this rare jewel Time; so rare,
That Gratitude it self no way can find
Whereby it may this gift repay in kind.
But you may ask how I from day to day
My time do spend? whether I my self obey
My self herein? I am, I must confess,
Like one who joyns care with his lavishness;
Who though's expences do his bounds surmount,
Yet of's expences still he keeps account.
I dare not say I lose no time, yet I
So careful am, that I can tell you why,
And how, and what I lose: so the same Fate
I'm in with him who to a poor estate
Not through his own fault is reduc'd, to whom
Pardon from all, succour from none doth come.
Thus I can tell how I come poor: but what?
Is that man poor who hath enough? Sure not.
Yet you, my friend, I rather would advise
With care to keep your time, betimes be wise
To use it well, you the old Proverb know,
Thrift comes too late when th' Purse is grown too low.
And rather haste, since Old-age Time behind
Not only least, but worst, we use to find.