, busie Soul, let distant Things alone,
Only the present Time's thy own;
Leave to the Gods what shall hereafter be,
Forbear the Search of dark Futurity.
If thou'lt at once more than one Minute live,
Thou must design or dread or grieve;
In turning back Remembrance represents,
Black Images of Discontent.
What happen'd to torment a Year ago,
Altho' it really ceases to do so?
If thou will't ruminate, 'tis still A Woe.
Thus what is past will always present be,
And in Idea ever torture thee;
On Pleasures too if we reflect,
They have the same unkind Effect;
We are as angry they are past,
As at those Griefs which we compel to last:
But tell me, partial Soul, ah tell me why?
Things of such Contrariety,
In thy Revolves should be the same to thee.