Thomas Stanley (1625–1678)

CHIDE, chide no more away

The fleeting daughters of the day,

Nor with impatient thoughts outrun

The lazy sun,

Nor think the hours do move too slow;

Delay is kind,

And we too soon shall find

That which we seek, yet fear to know.

The mystic dark decrees

Unfold not of the Destinies,

Nor boldly seek to antedate

The laws of Fate;

Thy anxious search awhile forbear,

Suppress thy haste,

And know that Time at last

Will crown thy hope, or fix thy fear.