time (n.)
- aeon
- age
- agree
- anon
- beat
- bell
- bender
- bit
- book
- bout
- break
- bust
- but
- carousal
- carouse
- chance
- circumstance
- clock
- conditions
- control
- convenience
- culture
- cycle
- date
- day
- days
- dead
- delay
- dogwatch
- duration
- early
- ease
- enlistment
- epoch
- era
- ever
- experience
- fix
- freedom
- generation
- go
- heyday
- hitch
- hour
- indiction
- inning
- innings
- instant
- interval
- jag
- juncture
- largo
- leisure
- liberty
- life
- lifetime
- linger
- loiter
- match
- meanwhile
- measure
- minute
- moment
- mores
- occasion
- once
- opening
- opportunism
- opportunity
- overtime
- pace
- passe
- patch
- period
- place
- plan
- point
- program
- rag
- ragtime
- relay
- relief
- repose
- rest
- retirement
- rhythm
- room
- round
- rubato
- say
- schedule
- scope
- season
- set
- shift
- shot
- show
- soon
- space
- span
- spell
- spree
- squeak
- stage
- stint
- straightaway
- stretch
- syncopation
- syncope
- tempo
- tenure
- term
- things
- times
- timing
- together
- tour
- trick
- triplet
- turn
- values
- watch
- whack
- while
- yet
time (v.)
- accompany
- adjust
- age
- agree
- antedate
- beat
- bell
- bit
- book
- bout
- break
- bust
- but
- carouse
- chance
- clock
- coexist
- coincide
- concur
- contemporize
- control
- convenience
- culture
- cycle
- date
- datemark
- dawdle
- day
- dead
- delay
- ease
- ever
- experience
- fix
- go
- hitch
- jag
- life
- linger
- loiter
- match
- measure
- minute
- occasion
- often
- once
- organize
- pace
- patch
- place
- plan
- point
- postdate
- program
- rag
- regulate
- relay
- repose
- rest
- room
- round
- say
- schedule
- scope
- season
- set
- shift
- show
- space
- span
- spell
- spree
- squeak
- stage
- stint
- stretch
- synchronize
- tenure
- term
- together
- tour
- trick
- turn
- watch
- whack
- whet
time (adv.)
- age
- always
- anon
- beforehand
- bit
- bout
- but
- chance
- clock
- constantly
- continually
- continuously
- control
- date
- day
- days
- dead
- early
- ease
- era
- eventually
- ever
- formerly
- forthwith
- frequently
- go
- heretofore
- however
- immediately
- inning
- largo
- leisure
- life
- meanwhile
- measure
- moment
- nevertheless
- nonetheless
- notwithstanding
- occasion
- occasionally
- often
- once
- overtime
- pace
- perpetually
- place
- prematurely
- presto
- previously
- punctually
- quickly
- repeatedly
- rest
- round
- say
- season
- shot
- simultaneously
- someday
- sometime
- sometimes
- soon
- speedily
- stage
- straightaway
- swiftly
- temporarily
- times
- together
- turn
- unceasingly
- while
- yet
time (adj.)
- age
- antiquated
- beat
- beforehand
- bit
- book
- bout
- bust
- chance
- clock
- date
- dated
- day
- dead
- early
- ease
- ever
- go
- inning
- instant
- largo
- life
- minute
- moment
- obsolescent
- obsolete
- old-fashioned
- opening
- outdated
- outmoded
- passe
- place
- plan
- point
- presto
- program
- rag
- rest
- room
- round
- say
- set
- shift
- shot
- sometime
- span
- stage
- straightaway
- stretch
- term
- timing
- together
- turn
- whack
- while
The very age and body of the time his form and pressure.
But all in good time.
Is there anything whereof it may be said, See, this is new? It hath been already of old time, which was before us.
Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I 'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
His golden locks time hath to silver turned;
O time too swift! Oh swiftness never ceasing!
His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned,
But spurned in vain; youth waneth by encreasing.
Philologists, who chase
A panting syllable through time and space,
Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark
To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's ark.
Come what come may,
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
Ye Gods! annihilate but space and time,
And make two lovers happy.
That saying which I hear commonly repeated,—that time assuages sorrow.
What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?
Nor time nor place
Did then adhere.
For he is but a bastard to the time
That doth not smack of observation.
Be not as one that hath ten thousand years to live; death is nigh at hand: while thou livest, while thou hast time, be good.
Be ruled by time, the wisest counsellor of all.
But sure the eye of time beholds no name
So blest as thine in all the rolls of fame.
One life,—a little gleam of time between two Eternities.
He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time:
The living throne, the sapphire blaze,
Where angels tremble while they gaze,
He saw; but blasted with excess of light,
Closed his eyes in endless night.
You think they are crusaders sent
From some infernal clime,
To pluck the eyes of sentiment
And dock the tail of Rhyme,
To crack the voice of Melody
And break the legs of Time.
'T is the breathing time of day with me.
They are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time: after your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.
Time still, as he flies, brings increase to her truth,
And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth.
My galligaskins, that have long withstood
The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts,
By time subdued (what will not time subdue!),
A horrid chasm disclosed.
Tell her the joyous Time will not be staid,
Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take.
There are some feelings time cannot benumb,
Nor torture shake.
The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,
Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made.
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become
As they draw near to their eternal home:
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view
That stand upon the threshold of the new.
To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
Life! we 've been long together
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
'T is hard to part when friends are dear,—
Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear;
Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;
Say not "Good night," but in some brighter clime
Bid me "Good morning."
There's a gude time coming.
There's a good time coming, boys!
A good time coming.
The end crowns all,
And that old common arbitrator, Time,
Will one day end it.
Prologues like compliments are loss of time;
'T is penning bows and making legs in rhyme.
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.
Life's but a means unto an end; that end
Beginning, mean, and end to all things,—God.
Under the shade of melancholy boughs,
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time;
If ever you have look'd on better days,
If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church,
If ever sat at any good man's feast.
When you wander, as you often delight to do, you wander indeed, and give never such satisfaction as the curious time requires. This is not caused by any natural defect, but first for want of election, when you, having a large and fruitful mind, should not so much labour what to speak as to find what to leave unspoken. Rich soils are often to be weeded.
Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of.
Time elaborately thrown away.
Take time enough: all other graces
Will soon fill up their proper places.
One day with life and heart
Is more than time enough to find a world.
Even such is time, that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days.
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust!
Let every man be master of his time
Till seven at night.
Time flies, death urges, knells call, Heaven invites,
Hell threatens.
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.
There is a time for some things, and a time for all things; a time for great things, and a time for small things.
Life is not so short but that there is always time enough for courtesy.
A man once asked Diogenes what was the proper time for supper, and he made answer, "If you are a rich man, whenever you please; and if you are a poor man, whenever you can."
Jewels five-words-long,
That on the stretch'd forefinger of all Time
Sparkle forever.
I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.
A gulf profound as that Serbonian bog
Betwixt Damiata and Mount Casius old,
Where armies whole have sunk: the parching air
Burns frore, and cold performs th' effect of fire.
Thither by harpy-footed Furies hal'd,
At certain revolutions all the damn'd
Are brought, and feel by turns the bitter change
Of fierce extremes,—extremes by change more fierce;
From beds of raging fire to starve in ice
Their soft ethereal warmth, and there to pine
Immovable, infix'd, and frozen round,
Periods of time; thence hurried back to fire.
Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I 'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
Time still, as he flies, brings increase to her truth,
And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth.
On a fair prospect some have looked,
And felt, as I have heard them say,
As if the moving time had been
A thing as steadfast as the scene
On which they gazed themselves away.
Remember that man's life lies all within this present, as 't were but a hair's-breadth of time; as for the rest, the past is gone, the future yet unseen. Short, therefore, is man's life, and narrow is the corner of the earth wherein he dwells.
Time has laid his hand
Upon my heart gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.
'T is now the summer of your youth. Time has not cropt the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them.
Themistocles said to Antiphales, "Time, young man, has taught us both a lesson."
His golden locks time hath to silver turned;
O time too swift! Oh swiftness never ceasing!
His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned,
But spurned in vain; youth waneth by encreasing.
He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend.
Eternity mourns that. 'T is an ill cure
For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them.
Where sorrow's held intrusive and turned out,
There wisdom will not enter, nor true power,
Nor aught that dignifies humanity.
His time is forever, everywhere his place.
[History] hath triumphed over time, which besides it nothing but eternity hath triumphed over.
He freshly and cheerfully asked him how a man should kill time.
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Tho' lost to sight, to mem'ry dear
Thou ever wilt remain;
One only hope my heart can cheer,—
The hope to meet again.
Oh fondly on the past I dwell,
And oft recall those hours
When, wand'ring down the shady dell,
We gathered the wild-flowers.
Yes, life then seem'd one pure delight,
Tho' now each spot looks drear;
Yet tho' thy smile be lost to sight,
To mem'ry thou art dear.
Oft in the tranquil hour of night,
When stars illume the sky,
I gaze upon each orb of light,
And wish that thou wert by.
I think upon that happy time,
That time so fondly lov'd,
When last we heard the sweet bells chime,
As thro' the fields we rov'd.
Yes, life then seem'd one pure delight,
Tho' now each spot looks drear;
Yet tho' thy smile be lost to sight,
To mem'ry thou art dear.
There is no greater sorrow
Than to be mindful of the happy time
In misery.
Time is a sort of river of passing events, and strong is its current; no sooner is a thing brought to sight than it is swept by and another takes its place, and this too will be swept away.
Our time is a very shadow that passeth away.
Art is long, and time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still like muffled drums are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
Remember that time is money.
The time is out of joint: O cursed spite,
That ever I was born to set it right!
The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying,
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
Time is the image of eternity.
Pythagoras, when he was asked what time was, answered that it was the soul of this world.
That kill the bloom before its time,
And blanch, without the owner's crime,
The most resplendent hair.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set; but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time,
So "Bonnie Doon" but tarry;
Blot out the epic's stately rhyme,
But spare his "Highland Mary!"
If you can look into the seeds of time,
And say which grain will grow and which will not.
Your face, my thane, is as a book where men
May read strange matters. To beguile the time,
Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,
Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,
But be the serpent under 't.
He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires,—
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
Many a time and oft
In the Rialto you have rated me.
Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them,—but not for love.
A very merry, dancing, drinking,
Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time.
It was a favourite expression of Theophrastus that time was the most valuable thing that a man could spend.
Nae man can tether time or tide.
Dire combustion and confused events
New hatch'd to the woful time.
Nick of time.
O, I have passed a miserable night,
So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams,
That, as I am a Christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though 't were to buy a world of happy days.
Too late I stayed,—forgive the crime!
Unheeded flew the hours;
How noiseless falls the foot of time
That only treads on flowers.
The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time.
Nor time nor place
Did then adhere.
He was not of an age, but for all time.
Nothing is so dear and precious as time.
Now is the accepted time.
No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon,
No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day,
. . . . .
No road, no street, no t' other side the way,
. . . . .
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.
'T is now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world.
To leave this keen encounter of our wits.
But, alas, to make me
A fixed figure for the time of scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at!
For, lo! the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.
But touch me, and no minister so sore;
Whoe'er offends at some unlucky time
Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme,
Sacred to ridicule his whole life long,
And the sad burden of some merry song.
That old bald cheater, Time.
For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers.
And panting Time toil'd after him in vain.
"War," says Machiavel, "ought to be the only study of a prince;" and by a prince he means every sort of state, however constituted. "He ought," says this great political doctor, "to consider peace only as a breathing-time, which gives him leisure to contrive, and furnishes ability to execute military plans." A meditation on the conduct of political societies made old Hobbes imagine that war was the state of nature.
Thus we play the fools with the time, and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us.
The whole life of man is but a point of time; let us enjoy it, therefore, while it lasts, and not spend it to no purpose.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
I was promised on a time
To have reason for my rhyme;
From that time unto this season,
I received nor rhyme nor reason.
A very merry, dancing, drinking,
Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time.
Some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltness of time.
O, call back yesterday, bid time return!
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Time ripens all things. No man is born wise.
And when with envy Time, transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys,
You 'll in your girls again be courted,
And I 'll go wooing in my boys.
Time rolls his ceaseless course.
Oh would I were a boy again,
When life seemed formed of sunny years,
And all the heart then knew of pain
Was wept away in transient tears!
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York,
And all the clouds that loured upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments,
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them,—
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun.
Underneath this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,—
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.
Death, ere thou hast slain another,
Learn'd and fair and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.
Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides.
Live to be the show and gaze o' the time.
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
His head,
Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er,
Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth,
But strong for service still, and unimpair'd.
It faded on the crowing of the cock.
Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.
It faded on the crowing of the cock.
Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.
In books lies the soul of the whole Past Time: the articulate audible voice of the Past, when the body and material substance of it has altogether vanished like a dream.
As the Swiss inscription says: Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden,—"Speech is silvern, Silence is golden;" or, as I might rather express it, Speech is of Time, Silence is of Eternity.
Silence is deep as Eternity, speech is shallow as Time.
A thing of custom,—'t is no other;
Only it spoils the pleasure of the time.
Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I 'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
Time still, as he flies, brings increase to her truth,
And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth.
Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale,
Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.
My galligaskins, that have long withstood
The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts,
By time subdued (what will not time subdue!),
A horrid chasm disclosed.
Still may syllabes jar with time,
Still may reason war with rhyme,
Resting never!
The bell strikes one. We take no note of time
But from its loss.
My galligaskins, that have long withstood
The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts,
By time subdued (what will not time subdue!),
A horrid chasm disclosed.
Time as he grows old teaches many lessons.
There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb
The crowns o' the world; oh, eyes sublime
With tears and laughter for all time!
Go, lovely rose!
Tell her that wastes her time and me
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Even such is time, that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days.
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust!
On a fair prospect some have looked,
And felt, as I have heard them say,
As if the moving time had been
A thing as steadfast as the scene
On which they gazed themselves away.
Be ruled by time, the wisest counsellor of all.
Very late in life, when he was studying geometry, some one said to Lacydes, "Is it then a time for you to be learning now?" "If it is not," he replied, "when will it be?"
Your face, my thane, is as a book where men
May read strange matters. To beguile the time,
Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,
Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,
But be the serpent under 't.
All these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come.
To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.
Our youth we can have but to-day,
We may always find time to grow old.
Misses! the tale that I relate
This lesson seems to carry,—
Choose not alone a proper mate,
But proper time to marry.
He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend.
Eternity mourns that. 'T is an ill cure
For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them.
Where sorrow's held intrusive and turned out,
There wisdom will not enter, nor true power,
Nor aught that dignifies humanity.
Night is the time to weep,
To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory where sleep
The joys of other years.
His golden locks time hath to silver turned;
O time too swift! Oh swiftness never ceasing!
His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned,
But spurned in vain; youth waneth by encreasing.
A forted residence 'gainst the tooth of time
And razure of oblivion.
In records that defy the tooth of time.
Touch us gently, Time!
Let us glide adown thy stream
Gently,—as we sometimes glide
Through a quiet dream.
And when with envy Time, transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys,
You 'll in your girls again be courted,
And I 'll go wooing in my boys.
Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I 'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
Time trieth troth in every doubt.
Time trieth troth in every doubt.
Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I 'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight!
Make me a child again, just for to-night!
Is there anything whereof it may be said, See, this is new? It hath been already of old time, which was before us.
Unpack my heart with words,
And fall a-cursing, like a very drab.
Thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.
When Time who steals our years away
Shall steal our pleasures too,
The mem'ry of the past will stay,
And half our joys renew.
I 've stood upon Achilles' tomb,
And heard Troy doubted: time will doubt of Rome.
Time will explain it all. He is a talker, and needs no questioning before he speaks.
Time will run back and fetch the age of gold.
For Time will teach thee soon the truth,
There are no birds in last year's nest!
Chiefs who no more in bloody fights engage,
But wise through time, and narrative with age,
In summer-days like grasshoppers rejoice,—
A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice.
'T is now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world.
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.
Alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life to light the fires of passion with from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number.
With thee conversing I forget all time,
All seasons, and their change,—all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glist'ring with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful ev'ning mild; then silent night
With this her solemn bird and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train:
But neither breath of morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun
On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower,
Glist'ring with dew, nor fragrance after showers,
Nor grateful ev'ning mild, nor silent night
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon
Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet.
With thee conversing I forget all time,
All seasons, and their change,—all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glist'ring with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful ev'ning mild; then silent night
With this her solemn bird and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train:
But neither breath of morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun
On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower,
Glist'ring with dew, nor fragrance after showers,
Nor grateful ev'ning mild, nor silent night
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon
Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet.
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow,—
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster.
