I have lived many years,
Many long years, but they are nothing now
To those which I must number: ages--ages--
Space and eternity--and consciousness,
With the fierce thirst of death--and still
unslaked!
Byron
Patience--and patience! Hence--that word was made
For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey!
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,--
I am not of thine order.
_C. Hun_. Thanks to Heaven!
I would not be of thine for the free fame
Of William Tell; but whatsoe'er thine ill, 40
It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless.
_Man_. Do I not bear it?--Look on me--I live.
_C. Hun._ This is convulsion, and no healthful life.
_Man_. I tell thee, man!
I have lived many years,
Many long years, but they are nothing now
To those which I must number: ages--ages--
Space and eternity--and consciousness,
With the fierce thirst of death--and still
unslaked!
_C. Hun_. Why on thy brow the seal of middle age
Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far. 50
_Man_. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time?[128]
It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine
Have made my days and nights imperishable,
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore,
Innumerable atoms; and one desert,
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks,
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness.
_C. Hun_. Alas! he's mad--but yet I must not leave him.
_Man_. I would I were--for then the things I see 60
Would be but a distempered dream.
_C. Hun_. What is it
That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon?
