ecalmed: And it is to no
Purpose to have within one the Seeds of a thousand good Qualities, if
we want the Vigour and Resolution necessary for the exerting them.
Death brings all Persons back to an Equality; and this Image of it,
this Slumber of the Mind, leaves no Difference between the greatest
Genius and the meanest Understanding: A Faculty of doing things
remarkably praise-worthy thus concealed, is of no more use to the
Owner, than a Heap of Gold to the Man who dares not use it.

To-Morrow is still the fatal Time when all is to be rectified:
To-Morrow comes, it goes, and still I please my self with the Shadow,
whilst I lose the Reality; unmindful that the present Time alone is
ours, the future is yet unborn, and the past is dead, and can only
live (as Parents in their Children) in the Actions it has produced.

The Time we live ought not to be computed by the Numbers of Years,
but by the Use has been made of it; thus tis not the Extent of
Ground, but the yearly Rent which gives the Value to the Estate.
Wretched and thoughtless Creatures, in the only Place where
Covetousness were a Virtue we turn Prodigals! Nothing lies upon our
Hands with such Uneasiness, nor has there been so many Devices for any
one Thing, as to make it slide away imperceptibly and to no purpose. A
Shilling shall be hoarded up with Care, whilst that which is above the
Price of an Estate, is flung away with Disregard and Contempt. There
is nothing now-a-days so much avoided, as a sollicitous Improvement of
every part of Time; tis a Report must be shunned as one tenders the
Name of a Wit and a fine Genius, and as one fears the Dreadful
Character of a laborious Plodder: But notwithstanding this, the
greatest Wits any Age has produced thought far otherwise; for who can
think either Socrates or Demosthenes lost any Reputation, by their
continual Pains both in overcoming the Defects and improving the Gifts
of Nature. All are acquainted with the Labour and Assiduity with which
Tully acquired his Eloquence.

Seneca in his Letters to Lucelius[1] assures him, there was not a Day
in which he did not either write something, or read and epitomize some
good Author; and I remember Pliny in one of his Letters, where he
gives an Account of the various Methods he used to fill up every
Vacancy of Time, after several Imployments which he enumerates;
sometimes, says he, I hunt; but even then I ca