In the distribution of human life, we find that a great part of it passes away in evil doing; a greater yet in doing just nothing at all: and effectually the whole in doing things beside our business. Some hours we bestow upon ceremony and servile attendances; some upon our pleasures, and the remainder runs at waste. What a deal of time is it that we spend in hopes and fears, love and revenge, in balls, treats, making of interests, suing for offices, soliciting of causes, and slavish flatteries! The shortness of life, I know, is the common complaint both of fools and philosophers; as if the time we have were not sufficient for our duties. But it is with our lives as with our estates, a good husband makes a little go a great way; whereas, let the revenue of a prince fall into the hands of a prodigal, it is gone in a moment. So that the time allotted us, if it were well employed, were abundantly enough to answer all the ends and purposes of mankind. But we squander it away in avarice, drink, sleep, luxury, ambition, fawning addresses, envy, rambling, voyages, impertinent studies, change of counsels, and the like; and when our portion is spent, we find the want of it, though we gave no heed to it in the passage: insomuch, that we have rather made our life short than found it so. You shall have some people perpetually playing with their fingers, whistling, humming, and talking to themselves; and others consume their days in the composing, hearing, or reciting of songs and lampoons. How many precious morning hours do we spend in consultation with barbers, tailors, and tire-women, patching and painting betwixt the comb and the glass! A council must be called upon every hair we cut; and one curl amiss is as much as a body’s life is worth. The truth is, we are more solicitous about our dress than our manners, and about the order of our periwigs than that of the government. At this rate, let us but discount, out of a life of a hundred years, that time which has been spent upon popular negotiations, frivolous amours, domestic brawls, sauntering up and down to no purpose, diseases that we have brought upon ourselves, and this large extent of life will not amount perhaps to the minority of another man. It is a long being, but perchance a short life. And what is the reason of all this? We live as we should never die, and without any thought of human frailty, when yet the very moment we bestow upon this man or thing, may, peradventure, be our last. But the greatest loss of time is delay and expectation, which depend upon the future. We let go the present, which we have in our own power; we look forward to that which depends upon Fortune; and so quit a certainty for an uncertainty. We should do by time as we do by a torrent, make use of it while we have it, for it will not last always.
When we look at how people spend their lives, we find that much of it is wasted on doing wrong things. Even more time is spent doing nothing at all. And practically all of it is spent on things that don't really matter. We waste hours on ceremonies and meaningless social obligations. We spend time on our pleasures, and the rest just slips away. Think about how much time we spend on hopes and fears, love and revenge, parties and entertainment, making connections, seeking jobs, pursuing lawsuits, and flattering people we want to impress! Everyone complains that life is too short, both fools and wise people alike. They act as if we don't have enough time to do what we need to do. But our lives are like our money. A careful person can make a little go a long way. But give a fortune to someone who wastes money, and it's gone in no time. The time we're given would be more than enough to accomplish everything we need to do, if we used it well. Instead, we waste it on greed, drinking, sleeping too much, luxury, ambition, sucking up to people, envy, wandering around aimlessly, pointless travel, useless studies, constantly changing our minds, and similar things. When our time is up, we realize we needed more of it, even though we paid no attention to it while we had it. We've made our lives short rather than finding them naturally so. You'll see some people constantly fidgeting with their hands, whistling, humming, and talking to themselves. Others waste their days writing, listening to, or reciting songs and jokes. How many precious morning hours do we spend consulting with barbers, tailors, and hairdressers, fixing and decorating ourselves between the comb and the mirror! We need a whole discussion about every hair we cut. One curl out of place feels like a matter of life and death. The truth is, we care more about our clothes than our character, and more about how our hair looks than how our government runs. At this rate, if we subtract from a hundred-year life all the time spent on meaningless social dealings, silly love affairs, family arguments, wandering around with no purpose, and diseases we've brought on ourselves, this long span of life might not even equal the childhood of someone else. It's a long existence, but perhaps a short life. Why does this happen? We live as if we'll never die, without any thought of human weakness. Yet the very moment we're spending on this person or that thing might be our last. But the biggest waste of time is delay and waiting, which depend on the future. We let go of the present, which we control. We look ahead to what depends on luck. So we give up something certain for something uncertain. We should treat time like a rushing river. Use it while we have it, because it won't last forever.
The calamities of human nature may be divided into the fear of death, and the miseries and errors of life. And it is the great work of mankind to master the one, and to rectify the other; and so live as neither to make life irksome to us, nor death terrible. It should be our care, before we are old, to live well, and when we are so, to die well; that we may expect our end without sadness: for it is the duty of life to prepare ourselves for death; and there is not an hour we live that does not mind us of our mortality.
Human suffering falls into two main categories: the fear of death and the troubles and mistakes of life. Our greatest task is to overcome our fear of death and fix the problems in our lives. We should live in a way that makes life neither burdensome nor death frightening. We should focus on living well before we grow old, and dying well when we reach that point. This way, we can face our end without sadness. Life's purpose is to prepare ourselves for death. Every hour we live reminds us that we are mortal.
Time runs on, and all things have their fate, though it lies in the dark. The period is certain to nature, but what am I the better for it if it be not so to me? We propound travels, arms, adventures, without ever considering that death lies in the way. Our term is set, and none of us know how near it is; but we are all of us agreed that the decree is unchangeable. Why should we wonder to have that befall us to-day which might have happened to us any minute since we were born? Let us therefore live as if every moment were to be our last, and set our accounts right every day that passes over our heads. We are not ready for death, and therefore we fear it, because we do not know what will become of us when we are gone, and that consideration strikes us with an inexplicable terror. The way to avoid this distraction is to contract our business and our thoughts—when the mind is once settled, a day or an age is all one to us; and the series of time, which is now our trouble will be then our delight; for he that is steadily resolved against all uncertainties, shall never be disturbed with the variety of them. Let us make haste, therefore, to live, since every day to a wise man is a new life—for he has done his business the day before, and so prepared himself for the next, that if it be not his last, he knows yet that it might have been so. No man enjoys the true taste of life but he that is willing and ready to quit it.
Time moves forward, and everything has its destiny, even if we can't see it coming. Nature sets the timeline, but what good does that do me if I don't know when my time will come? We make plans for travel, war, and adventures without ever thinking that death stands in our path. Our time is already decided, and none of us knows how close the end might be. But we all agree that this fate cannot be changed. Why should we be surprised when something happens to us today that could have happened any moment since we were born? We should live as if each moment might be our last. We should settle our affairs every single day. We're not prepared for death, so we fear it. We don't know what will happen to us after we die, and that thought fills us with terrible dread. The way to avoid this anxiety is to simplify our business and our thoughts. Once our mind is at peace, a single day feels the same as a lifetime. The passage of time that troubles us now will become our joy later. Someone who stays firmly resolved against all uncertainties will never be disturbed by life's changes. Let's hurry up and truly live, because every day gives a wise person a new life. He finishes his work each day and prepares for the next. Even if tomorrow isn't his last day, he knows it could have been. No one truly enjoys life unless they're willing and ready to leave it behind.
The wit of man is not able to express the blindness of human folly in taking so much more care of our fortunes, our houses, and our money, than we do of our lives—everybody breaks in upon the one gratis, but we betake ourselves to fire and sword if any man invades the other. There is no dividing in the case of patrimony, but people share our time with us at pleasure, so profuse are we of that only thing whereof we may be honestly covetous. It is a common practice to ask an hour or two of a friend for such or such a business, and it is as easily granted, both parties only considering the occasion, and not the thing itself. They never put time to account, which is the most valuable of all precious things; but because they do not see it they reckon upon it as nothing: and yet these easy men when they come to die would give the whole world for those hours again which they so inconsiderately cast away before; but there is no recovering of them. If they could number their days that are yet to come as they can those that are already past, how would those very people tremble at the apprehension of death, though a hundred years hence, that never so much as think of it at present, though they know not but it may take them away the next immediate minute!
People are amazingly blind to their own foolishness. We take far more care of our money, houses, and possessions than we do of our lives. Everyone freely wastes our time, but we'd fight with fire and sword if someone tried to take our property. We won't share our inheritance with anyone, yet we let people take our time whenever they please. We're wasteful with the one thing we should truly treasure. It's common to ask a friend for an hour or two for some business, and it's easily granted. Both people think only about the task at hand, not about the time itself. They never count time as valuable, even though it's the most precious thing of all. Because they can't see it, they treat it as worthless. Yet these same careless people, when they're dying, would give the whole world to get back those hours they threw away so thoughtlessly. But there's no getting them back. If they could count their remaining days the way they count the days already gone, how those very same people would tremble at the thought of death! Even if it were a hundred years away, they'd be terrified. Right now they never think about death at all, even though they know it might take them in the very next minute.
It is an usual saying “I would give my life for such or such a friend,” when, at the same time, we do give it without so much as thinking of it; nay, when that friend is never the better for it, and we ourselves the worse. Our time is set, and day and night we travel on. There is no baiting by the way, and it is not in the power of either prince or people to prolong it. Such is the love of life, that even those decrepit dotards that have lost the use of it will yet beg the continuance of it, and make themselves younger than they are, as if they could cozen even Fate itself! When they fall sick, what promises of amendment if they escape that bout! What exclamations against the folly of their misspent time—and yet if they recover, they relapse. No man takes care to live well, but long; when yet it is in everybody’s power to do the former, and in no man’s to do the latter. We consume our lives in providing the very instruments of life, and govern ourselves still with a regard to the future, so that we do not properly live, but we are about to live. How great a shame is it to be laying new foundations of life at our last gasp, and for an old man (that can only prove his age by his beard,) with one foot in the grave, to go to school again! While we are young we may learn; our minds are tractable and our bodies fit for labor and study; but when age comes on, we are seized with languor and sloth, afflicted with diseases, and at last we leave the world as ignorant as we came into it—only we die worse than we were born, which is none of Nature’s fault, but ours; for our fears, suspicions, perfidy, etc., are from ourselves.
People often say "I would give my life for such and such a friend." But we actually do give our lives away without thinking about it. Our friend doesn't benefit from it, and we make ourselves worse off. Our time is limited, and we travel through day and night. There's no stopping along the way. Neither kings nor common people have the power to make life longer. We love life so much that even feeble old people who can barely function still beg to keep living. They pretend to be younger than they are, as if they could trick Fate itself! When they get sick, they make all kinds of promises about how they'll change if they survive. They cry out against wasting their time. Yet if they recover, they go right back to their old ways. No one focuses on living well, only on living long. Everyone has the power to live well, but no one can control how long they live. We waste our lives gathering the tools we think we need for living. We always focus on the future instead of the present, so we don't actually live. We're always about to live. How shameful it is to start building a new foundation for life when we're gasping our last breath! An old man who can only prove his age by his gray beard, with one foot in the grave, goes back to school again! When we're young, we can learn. Our minds are flexible and our bodies are strong enough for work and study. But when old age arrives, we become lazy and sluggish. We get sick with diseases. Finally, we leave the world as ignorant as when we entered it. We die worse than we were born, and that's not Nature's fault but our own. Our fears, suspicions, and betrayals come from ourselves.
I wish with all my soul that I had thought of my end sooner, but I must make the more haste now and spur on like those that set out late upon a journey—it will be better to learn late than not at all—though it be but only to instruct me how I may leave the stage with honor.
I wish with all my heart that I had thought about my death sooner. But I must hurry now and push forward like travelers who start their journey late. It's better to learn late than never learn at all. Even if it only teaches me how to leave this world with dignity.
In the division of life, there is time present, past, and to come. What we do is short, what we shall do is doubtful, but what we have done is certain, and out of the power of fortune. The passage of time is wonderfully quick, and a man must look backward to see it; and, in that retrospect, he has all past ages at a view; but the present gives us the slip unperceived. It is but a moment that we live, and yet we are dividing it into childhood, youth, man’s estate, and old age, all which degrees we bring into that narrow compass. If we do not watch, we lose our opportunities; if we do not make haste, we are left behind; our best hours escape us, the worst are to come. The purest part of our life runs first, and leaves only the dregs at the bottom; and “that time which is good for nothing else, we dedicate to virtue;” and only propound to begin to live at an age that very few people arrive at. What greater folly can there be in the world than this loss of time, the future being so uncertain, and the damages so irreparable? If death be necessary, why should any man fear it? and if the time of it be uncertain, why should not we always expect it? We should therefore first prepare ourselves by a virtuous life against the dread of an inevitable death; and it is not for us to put off being good until such or such a business is over, for one business draws on another, and we do as good as sow it, one grain produces more. It is not enough to philosophize when we have nothing else to do, but we must attend wisdom even to the neglect of all things else; for we are so far from having time to spare, that the age of the world would be yet too narrow for our business; nor is it sufficient not to omit it, but we must not so much as intermit it.
Life can be divided into three parts: the present, the past, and the future. What we're doing now is brief. What we'll do tomorrow is uncertain. But what we've already done is fixed and beyond the reach of chance. Time passes incredibly fast, and we can only see it when we look back. In that backward glance, we can view all of history at once. But the present moment slips away without us noticing. We live for just a moment, yet we divide that moment into childhood, youth, adulthood, and old age. We squeeze all these stages into such a narrow space. If we don't pay attention, we miss our chances. If we don't hurry, we get left behind. Our best hours escape us, and the worst are still coming. The purest part of our life runs out first, leaving only the dregs at the bottom. "That time which is good for nothing else, we dedicate to virtue." We only plan to start really living at an age that very few people reach. What greater foolishness exists than this waste of time? The future is so uncertain, and the damage is beyond repair. If death is inevitable, why should anyone fear it? If we don't know when it will come, why shouldn't we always expect it? We should first prepare ourselves through virtuous living against the fear of unavoidable death. We shouldn't put off being good until this or that task is finished. One task leads to another, and we practically plant seeds for more work. One task produces many others. It's not enough to think about philosophy only when we have nothing else to do. We must pursue wisdom even if it means neglecting everything else. We're so far from having time to spare that even the entire age of the world would be too short for our work. It's not sufficient just to avoid skipping it. We can't even pause in our pursuit.
There is nothing that we can properly call our own but our time, and yet every body fools us out of it that has a mind to it. If a man borrows a paltry sum of money, there must be bonds and securities, and every common civility is charged upon account; but he that has my time, thinks he owes me nothing for it, though it be a debt that gratitude itself can never repay. I cannot call any man poor that has enough still left, be it never so little: it is good advice yet to those that have the world before them, to play the good husbands betimes, for it is too late to spare at the bottom, when all is drawn out to the lees. He that takes away a day from me, takes away what he can never restore me. But our time is either forced away from us, or stolen from us, or lost; of which the last is the foulest miscarriage. It is in life as in a journey; a book or a companion brings us to our lodging before we thought we were half-way. Upon the whole matter we consume ourselves one upon another, without any regard at all to our own particular. I do not speak of such as live in notorious scandal, but even those men themselves, whom the world pronounces happy, are smothered in their felicities, servants to their professions and clients, and drowned in their lusts. We are apt to complain of the haughtiness of great men, when yet there is hardly any of them all so proud but that, at some time or other, a man may yet have access to him, and perhaps a good word or look into the bargain. Why do we not rather complain of ourselves, for being of all others, even to ourselves, the most deaf and inaccessible.
Time is the only thing we can truly call our own, yet everyone who wants to will waste it for us. When someone borrows even a small amount of money, we demand bonds and securities. Every simple courtesy gets put on a tab. But someone who takes my time thinks they owe me nothing for it, even though it's a debt that gratitude itself could never repay. I can't call anyone poor who still has something left, no matter how little. Still, it's good advice for those just starting out to be careful with their time early on. It's too late to save when you've already drained everything to the bottom. Someone who steals a day from me takes something they can never give back. Our time gets forced away from us, stolen from us, or lost. The last one is the worst mistake of all. Life is like a journey. A book or a companion brings us to our destination before we realize we're even halfway there. We basically consume each other without any thought for ourselves. I'm not talking about people who live in obvious scandal. Even those the world calls happy are suffocated by their good fortune. They become slaves to their jobs and clients, drowning in their desires. We complain about how arrogant powerful people are. Yet there's hardly one of them so proud that you can't get access to them at some point, maybe even get a kind word or look. Why don't we complain about ourselves instead? We are, more than anyone else, even to ourselves, the most deaf and unreachable.
Company and business are great devourers of time, and our vices destroy our lives as well as our fortunes. The present is but a moment, and perpetually in flux; the time past, we call to mind when we please, and it will abide the examination and inspection. But the busy man has not leisure to look back, or if he has, it is an unpleasant thing to reflect upon a life to be repented of, whereas the conscience of a good life puts a man into a secure and perpetual possession of a felicity never to be disturbed or taken away: but he that has led a wicked life is afraid of his own memory; and, in the review of himself, he finds only appetite, avarice, or ambition, instead of virtue. But still he that is not at leisure many times to live, must, when his fate comes, whether he will or not, be at leisure to die. Alas! what is time to eternity? the age of a man to the age of the world? And how much of this little do we spend in fears, anxieties, tears, childhood! nay, we sleep away the one half. How great a part of it runs away in luxury and excess: the ranging of our guests, our servants, and our dishes! As if we were to eat and drink not for satiety, but ambition. The nights may well seem short that are so dear bought, and bestowed upon wine and women; the day is lost in expectation of the night, and the night in the apprehension of the morning. There is a terror in our very pleasures; and this vexatious thought in the very height of them, that they will not last always: which is a canker in the delights, even of the greatest and the most fortunate of men.
Work and business consume enormous amounts of time, and our bad habits destroy both our lives and our wealth. The present moment passes in an instant and never stops changing. We can recall the past whenever we want, and it stays put for us to examine closely. But busy people don't have time to look back. Even when they do, it's painful to think about a life they regret. A clear conscience from living well gives someone lasting happiness that can never be disturbed or stolen. But someone who has lived badly fears their own memories. When they look back at themselves, they find only greed, selfishness, or ambition instead of virtue. The person who barely has time to live must still, when death comes, find time to die whether they want to or not. What is our brief time compared to eternity? What is one human lifetime compared to the age of the world? How much of this short life do we waste on fears, worries, tears, and childhood? We sleep away half of it. How much disappears in luxury and excess - arranging our guests, our servants, and our meals as if we eat and drink not to satisfy hunger but to show off? The nights seem short when they cost so much and we spend them on wine and women. We waste the day waiting for night, and waste the night dreading morning. Even our pleasures terrify us. At the height of enjoyment comes this troubling thought: it won't last forever. This worry eats away at the happiness of even the greatest and most fortunate people.