Thou breathing dial! since thy day began
The present hour was ever mark'd with shade.

Thou breathing dial! since thy day began
The present hour was ever mark'd with shade.

In the day, do the day's work.

In the day, do the day's work.

I go away and come again each day,
But thou shalt go away and ne'er return.

I go away and come again each day,
But thou shalt go away and ne'er return.

I count only the hours that are serene.
[Lat., Horas non numero nisi serenas.]

I count only the hours that are serene.
[Lat., Horas non numero nisi serenas.]

Give God thy heart, thy service, and thy gold; The day wears on,
and time is waxing old.
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Give God thy heart, thy service, and thy gold; The day wears on,
and time is waxing old.
- Unattributed Author,

If o'er the dial glides a shade, redeem
The time for lo! it passes like a dream;
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If o'er the dial glides a shade, redeem
The time for lo! it passes like a dream;
But if 'tis all a blank, then mark the loss
Of hours unblest by shadows from the cross.

As the long hours do pass away,
So doth the life of man decay.

As the long hours do pass away,
So doth the life of man decay.

I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day: the
night cometh, when no read more

I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day: the
night cometh, when no man can work.

O God! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain;
To read more

O God! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials, quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes, how they run--
How many makes the hour full complete,
How many hours brings about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live;
When this is known, then to divide the times--
So many hours must I tend my flock,
So many hours must I take my rest,
So many hours must I contemplate,
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean,
So many months ere I shall shear the fleece.
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Passed over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this!