Time, that hath no bound, and years without number, is in the present so meagre and thrift, it grudges me cheap minutes to play. Would I gain an hour, I might count myself a king, and build palaces to its honour. Instead it lends me a thief's estate, my leisure stolen from an arrearage of work.
If we meet upon the road, suffer me to greet thee with joy, and consider it a rare and precious thing, but do not tempt me to stay, for I am in this world for ransomed moments, and must soon return to my debtor's cage.
Wednesday 22 November 2006
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