Of The Loss of Time

If life be time that here is lent,
And time on earth be cast away,
Whoso his time hath here misspent,
Hath hastened his own dying day:
So it doth prove a killing crime
To massacre our living time.

If doing nought be like to death,
Of him that doth, chameleon-wise
Take only pains to draw his breath,
The passers-by may pasquilize,
Not, here he lives: but, here, he dies.