“All my past life is mine no more;
the flying hours are gone,
Like transitory dreams given o'er,
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.
The time that is to come is not;
How can it then be mine?
The present moment's all my lot;
And that, as fast as it is got,
My love, is only thine.
Then talk not of inconstancy,
Falso hearts, and broken vows;
If I by miracle can be
This live-long minute true to thee,
'Tis all that Heaven allows.”
John Wilmot
