If life be time that here is lent,
And time on earth be cast away,
Whoso his time hath here misspent,
Hath hastened his own dying day:
So it doth prove a killing crime
To massacre our living time.
If doing nought be like to death,
Of him that doth, chameleon-wise
Take only pains to draw his breath,
The passers-by may pasquilize,
Not, here he lives: but, here, he dies.
