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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=381284" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Complaint: or Night Thoughts (excerpt)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">By Nature's law, what may be, may be now;<br> There's no prerogative in human hours.<br> In human hearts what bolder thought can rise,<br> Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn?<br> Where is to-morrow? In another world.<br> For numbers this is certain; the reverse<br> Is sure to none; and yet on this perhaps,<br> This peradventure, infamous for lies,<br> As on a rock of adamant we build<br> Our mountain hopes, spin out eternal schemes<br> As we the Fatal Sisters could out-spin,<br> And big with life's futurities, expire.<br> Not ev'n Philander had bespoke his shroud,<br> Nor had he cause; a warning was deny'd:<br> How many fall as sudden, not as safe!<br> As sudden, though for years admonish'd home.<br> Of human ills the last extreme beware;<br> Beware, Lorenzo, a slow-sudden death.<br> How dreadful that deliberate surprise!<br> Be wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer;<br> Next day the fatal precedent will plead;<br> Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life.<br> Procrastination is the thief of time;<br> Year after year it steals, till all are fled,<br> And to the mercies of a moment leaves<br> The vast concerns of an eternal scene.<br> If not so frequent, would not this be strange?<br> That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.<br> Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears<br> The palm, &quot;That all men are about to live,&quot;<br> For ever on the brink of being born,<br> All pay themselves the compliment to think<br> They, one day, shall not drivel: and their pride<br> On this reversion takes up ready praise;<br> At least, their own; their future selves applauds;<br> How excellent that life they ne'er will lead!<br> Time lodg'd in their own hands is Folly's vails;<br> That lodg'd in Fate's to Wisdom they consign.<br> The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone.<br> 'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool,<br> And scarce in human wisdom to do more.<br> All promise is poor dilatory man,<br> And that through every stage; when young, indeed,<br> In full content we sometimes nobly rest,<br> Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish,<br> As duteous sons our fathers were more wise.<br> At thirty man suspects himself a fool,<br> Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;<br> At fifty chides his infamous delay,<br> Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;<br> In all the magnanimity of thought<br> Resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edward+Young">Edward Young</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=381284" data-title="The Complaint: or Night Thoughts (excerpt) de Edward Young" data-description="By Nature's law, what may be, may be now;
 There's no prerogative in human hours.
 In human hearts what bolder thought can rise,
 Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn?
 Where is to-morrow? In another world.
 For numbers this is certain; the ..."></div>
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