Procrastination is the thief of time; year after year it steals, till all are fled, and to the mercies of a moment leaves the vast concerns of an eternal state. At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; at fifty chides his infamous delay, pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; in all the magnanimity of thought, resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same.

'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.

Tomorrow is a satire on today, And shows its weakness.

Procrastination is the thief of time: Year after year it steals, till all are fled.

There is nothing of which men are more liberal than their good advice, be their stock of it ever so small; because it seems to carry in it an intimation of their own influence, importance or worth.

We see time's furrows on another's brow, And death intrench'd, preparing his assault; How few themselves in that just mirror see!

The booby father craves a booby son, And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.