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On Time
a poem by John Milton 

 


Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race, 
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, 
Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets' 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 entomb'd, 
And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd, 
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, 
Attir'd with Stars, we shall for ever sit, 
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time.

 


On Time - a poem by John Milton

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