TO-morrow, didst thou say!
Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow.
Go to — I will not hear of it — To-morrow!
'Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury
Against thy plenty — who takes thy ready cash,
And pays thee nought but wishes, hopes, and promises,
The currency of ideots. — Injurious bankrupt,
That gulls the easy creditor! — To-morrow!
It is a period no where to be found
In all the hoary registers of Time,
Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,
'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father;
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are; and baseless
As the fantastic visions of the evening.