All my past life is mine no more ;
The flying hours are gone,
Like transitory dreams given o’er
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.
Whatever is to come is not :
How can it then be mine ?
The present moment’s all my lot,
And that, as fast as it is got,
Phyllis, is wholly thine.
Then talk not of inconstancy,
False hearts, and broken vows ;
If I, by miracle, can be
This livelong minute true to thee,
Tis all that heaven allows.
