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Poem by John Milton


On Time


Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's 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 intombed,
And last of all thy greedy self consumed,
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,
Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time. 



John Milton


John Milton's other poems:
  1. Psalm 80
  2. Psalm 5
  3. Psalm 6
  4. Upon the Circumcision


Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • Jonathan Swift On Time ("Ever eating, never cloying")
  • Francis Quarles On Time ("Time's an hand's-breadth; 'tis a tale")
  • Joanna Baillie On Time ("TIME sooth, since Time has been, has still sustain'd")
  • John Skelton On Time ("YE may hear now, in this rime")

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