To-morrow, didst thou say? Methought I heard Horatio say, to-morrow. Go to — I will not hear of it — to-morrow! ’Tis a sharper that stakes his penury Against thy plenty — who takes thy ready cash, And pays thee naught but wishes, hopes, and promises, The currency of idiots. Injurious bankrupt, That gulls the easy creditor! to-morrow! It is a period nowhere to be found In all the hoary registers of time, Unless perchance in the fool’s calendar. Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society With those that own it. No, my Horatio, ’Tis fancy’s child, and folly is its father: Wrought on such stuff as dreams are; and baseless As the fantastic visions of the evening.
— CHARLES COTTON