If I were to parse the argument that I have proposed, many things would occur to me which I could use to prove that the busy life is indeed a brief one.

Fabianus, who was not one of today’s sophists, but a natural philosopher in the ancient mold, used to say that we must fight our passions like soldiers, not with half-measures, and that the battle must be hard fought, not by inflicting minor wounds; and that sophistry is useless, for the passions must be not curbed but crushed. However, reproach for being governed by passions is a mistake; these people must be instructed not criticized.

Life is divided into three parts: what was, what is and what shall be. Of these three periods, the present is short, the future is doubtful and the past alone is certain.

Only over the last one has fate lost control; only the past can not be determined by any man.

The busy lose perspective because they are too distracted to stop and look back at the past, and if they did, there is no joy in recalling something that they must regard with regret.

They are thus incapable of examining a life misspent, of realizing how much time was wasted on vices, no matter how obvious it is that they have squandered their days. Making it even harder, they are presently indulging in those same pleasurable pursuits and do not have the will to change course.

No one truly turns to examine his past, unless he is prepared to submit his acts to the courtroom of his conscience, which can never be fooled. He who has ambitiously coveted, proudly scorned, recklessly vanquished, treacherously betrayed, greedily taken, or extravagantly squandered, must forever doubt the veracity of his memory.

And yet this is the allotment of our time that is sacred and set apart, placed beyond the reach of human folly, and taken from the control of fate, the part of life which is allayed by no desire, by no fear, by no attack of illness; this can neither be disturbed nor taken away and is made more profound by its perpetual possession.

The present offers one day at a time, divided into minutes; but all the days of the past can be conjured up when called, and are under your control to behold and hold them at will – a trick that the busy have no time to perform.

A clear conscience gives the tranquil mind power to explore all the parts of its existence; but the mind that is preoccupied, as if burdened by a yoke, cannot turn and look back.

Such lives vanish into the abyss and can never be dredged up from the bottomless depths. It is the same with time. It makes no difference how much of it you have, if there is no foundation, time will seep out through the chinks and holes of the mind.

Present time is very brief, so much so that to some there seems to be none of it – it is always in motion, flowing and hurrying on; it ends before it has arrived, and can no more suffer delay than the sky or the stars, whose ever restless motion never lets them linger in place.

The busy man remains rooted to the ground, ever stuck in the present, a time so brief that it cannot be grasped, and thus it is stolen from him, busy as he is with so many things.