CAPRICIOUS TIME

By

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

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Time hath, my Lord, a wallet at his back,

Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,A great-siz'd monster of ingratitudes:

Those scraps are good deeds past; which are devour'd

As fast as they are made, forgot as soon

As done: perseverence, dear my Lord,

Keeps honour bright: to have done, is to hang

Quite of fashion, like a rusty mail

In monumental mockery. Take the instant way;

For honour travels in a strait so narrow

Where one bit goes abreast: keep then the path;

For emulation hath a thousand sons

That one by one pursue: if you give way,

Or hedge aside from the direct forthright,

Like to an enter'd tide they all rush by

And leave you hindmost;

Or, like a gallant horse fall'n in the first rank,

Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,

O'errun and trampled on: then what they do in present,

Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours;

For time is like a fashionable host,

That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand,

And with his arms outstretched, as he would fly,

Grasps in the comer: welcome ever smiles,

And farewell goes out sighing. O! let not virtue seek

Remuneration for the thing it was;

For beauty, wit,

High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service,

Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all

To envious and calumniating time.

One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,

That all with one consent praise new-born gawds,

Though they are made and moulded of things past,

And give to dust that is a little gilt

More laud than gilt o'er dusted.

(From Troilus and Cressida)

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