RUTHLESS TIME. BY WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. (From “Troilus and Cressida.”)

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great sized monster of ingratitudes; Those scraps are good deeds past; which are devour’d As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done: perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honor bright; to have done is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take th’ instant way; For honor travels in a straight so narrow, Where one but goes abreast; keep, then, the path; For emulation hath a thousand sons, That one by one pursue: if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an enter’d tide, they all rush by And leave you hindmost; Or like a gallant horse fallen in first rank, Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, O’errun and trampled on.