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Lettered inside image: "24 | To man's false opticks, from his folly false, | *Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings, | And seems to creep decrepit with his age: | Behold him, when past by; what then is seen, | But his broad pinions swifter than the winds? | And all mankind, in contradiction strong, | Rueful--aghast--cry out on his career. | Leave to thy foes these errors, and these ills; | To nature just, their cause and cure explore. | Not short Heaven's bounty, boundless our expence; | No niggard nature; men are prodigals: | We waste, not use our time; we breathe, not live: | Time wasted is existence, used is life: | And bare existence, man, to live ordain'd, | Wrings and oppresses with enormous weight: | And why? since time was given for use, not waste, | Enjoin'd to fly; with tempest, tide, and stars | To keep his speed, nor ever wait for man: | Time's use was doom'd a pleasure; waste, a pain: | That man might feel his error, if unseen; | And, feeling, fly to labour for his cure; | Not, blund'ring, split on idleness for ease. | Life's cares are comforts, such by Heaven design'd; | He that has none, must make them, or be wretched: | Cares are employments; and without employ | The soul is on the rack; the rack of rest, | To souls most adverse; action all their joy. | Here, then, the riddle mark'd above, unfolds; | Then time turns torment, when man turns a fool: | We rave, we wrestle with great nature's plan;"; lower right: "inv | WB"; lower left: "<Pubd.> June 27th. 1796 by R. Edwards No. 142 New Bond Street."