Edward Young

And can eternity belong to me,
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?

And can eternity belong to me,
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?

A soul without reflection, like a pile
Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.

A soul without reflection, like a pile
Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.

At thirty, man suspects himself a fool,
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty, read more

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.
And why? because he thinks himself immortal,
All men think all men mortal but themselves.