Nor trust to-morrow's doubtful light.
FRANCIS.

We all of us complain of the shortness of time, saith Seneca, and
yet have much more than we know what to do with. Our lives, says
he, are spent either in doing nothing at all, or in doing nothing to
the purpose, or in doing nothing that we ought to do. We are always
complaining our days are few, and acting as though there would be no
end of them. That noble philosopher described our inconsistency
with ourselves in this particular, by all those various turns of
expression and thoughts which are peculiar to his writings.

I often consider mankind as wholly inconsistent with itself in a
point that bears some affinity to the former. Though we seem
grieved at the shortness of life in general, we are wishing every
period of it at an end. The minor longs to be of age, then to be a
man of business, then to make up an estate, then to arrive at
honours, then to retire. Thus, although the whole of life is
allowed by every one to be short, the several divisions of it appear
long and tedious. We are for lengthening our span in general, but
would fain contract the parts of which it is composed. The usurer
would be very well satisfied to have all the time annihilated that
lies between the present moment and next quarter-day. The
politician would be contented to lose three years in his life, could
he place things in the posture which he fancies they will stand in
after such a revolution of time. The lover would be glad to strike
out of his existence all the moments that are to pass away before
the happy meeting. Thus, as fast as our time runs, we should be
very glad, in most part of our lives, that it ran much faster than
it does. Several hours of the day hang upon our hands, nay, we wish