John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647–1680)

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.

The time that 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,

Phillis, is only thine.

Then talk not of inconstancy,

False hearts, and broken vows;

If I by miracle can be

This live-long minute true to thee,

’Tis all that Heaven allows.