Had got a race of mourners on som pregnant cloud.

Note: This subject the Author finding to be above the yeers he had,

when he wrote it, and nothing satisfi'd with what was begun,

left it unfinish'd.

ON TIME.

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 thy self with what thy womb devours,

Which is no more then what is false and vain,

And meerly 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

The Poetical Works of John Milton