Night philosophy becomes theology;
We’ve not seen such darkness for centuries.
Every thought condensed into a death before dying.
Then a shout: who?
“To-morrow you will live, you always cry;
In what far country does this morrow lie,
That ’tis so mighty long ere it arrive?
Beyond the Indies does this morrow live?
‘Tis so far fetch’d this morrow, that I fear
‘Twill be both very old and very dear.
To-morrow I will live, the fool does say;
To0-day itself’s too late, the wise liv’d yesterday.”
Abraham Cowley | After the Latin of Martial