Song CXVII. Time Killers

How weak is the Wisdom of Man? How foolish the fancy of Taste? Admitting that Life's but a Span, That Span must we wantonly waste? About we dissatisfy'd move, And ramble from climate to clime; Yet neither enjoy nor improve, But only, alas! to kill Time.

Ye Husbands, rash Dupes to Excess, Pretend to live damn'd honest lives, Ingrates to the good ye possess, You abuse both your Time and your Wives, At midnight inebriate reel, A prey to foul Prostitute's lure, O! think what Affection must feel, What delicate Wives may endure?

The Gun-loaded 'Squire will toil All day with keen Industry's care, Incessantly anxious to spoil, The innocent Tenants of Air. Or after the Fox bursts away, Swift down the wind gallops along; The Mischiefs that chance in the Day, At Night furnish Fun for a Song.

At Toilets how Beauties appear, Like Fowlers they arm and take aim; High charg'd with Curls, tier over tier, And animal Man is their Game. Sometimes with less dangerous arts, The fair, Dissipations pursue, If Trifles did not take their parts, With horrid Time what cou'd they do?

When fine Women do as they please, They hear not the Nursery's din; No Husband's absurdities teize. They fly such dull Scenes to cut in, Dear Bragg, Hazard, Loo, and Quadrille, Delightful! extatic! immense! With them each Reflection they kill, And escape all the trouble of Sense.

Yet, Lovelies, before 'tis too late, While yet the pulse beats in its prime, Consider that wrinkles await, And make up your Quarrel with Time. Before 'tis too late, so will we— Too long I've your patience be-rhim'd, With Time may we henceforth agree, And henceforth all things be well-tim'd.