University of Virginia Library

Why, envious Age, dost thou my End delay?
Why in this wearied Trunk delight to stay?
My captive Life from such a Prison free,
Death now is Rest, when Life is Misery.
I'm no more what I was, but sunk, and old,
And what remains is languishing and cold.
The day that young Men chears, offends mine Eye,
And (which is worse than Death) I wish to die.

I was my Youth, whilst Wit, and Beauty crown'd,
An Orator throughout the World renown'd.
The Poets charming lies full oft I feign'd,
And by fictitious Tales, true Titles gain'd.
In all Disputes of Wit the Wreath bore I;
And have my Eloquence reputed high,
High, and immortal. Oh! what then remains
Worthy an old Man's Living; or his Pains?
Nor less than these the Beauty of my Face,
Which (though the rest are wanting) wins much Grace.
Manhood to that, which richer far than Gold,
Makes Wit a greater price, and Lustre hold.
If I, with Dogs, the Thickets would surround,
The conquer'd Prey fell at my Launces Wound;
Or would I loose Shafts from the bending Yew,
With great applause untamed Beasts I slew;
Or with the sinewy Wrestlers if I try'd,
With my strong Nerves their oyly Limbs I ty'd:
Now at the Race I all that came out-run;
And now in Tragick Song the Buskin won.
This mixture of good things my worth increast,
Still various Works of Art advance us best:
For whatsoever things simply delight,
Joyn'd to another Grace, shine out more bright;
With such a Mine of Fortitude adorn'd,
All threatning Dangers I contemn'd, and scorn'd.
Bare-head I made the Winds and Storms retreat,
Feeling no Winters Cold; nor Summer's Heat;
I swam the yellow Tyber's gelid Stream,
And fearless would the doubtful Current stem.
With the least Sleep I could forsake my Bed,
And with the slend'rest fare be amply fed.
Or if a drunken Guest surpriz'd my Walls,
To waste the forlorn day in Bacchanals;
Lyæus self struck Sail, amaz'd, and dumb,
And he that always conquer'd, fell o'recome.
Nor is't an easy thing the Mind to bend
At once with two Opposers to contend.
And in this kind of strife they say of Yore,
Great Socrates the Victor's Trophy bore.
And thus they say the rigid Cato won;
Things are not ill themselves, unless ill done.
To all things dreadless I oppos'd my Face,
And to my constant Mind Mischance gave place.
With little pleas'd I still lov'd to be poor,
And being Lord of all, could wish no more.
Thou only, wretched Age, dost me subdue,
To whom who conquers all things else must bow.
'Tis into thee we fall, and what at last
Decays, and withers, thou alone dost wast.
Hetruria ravisht with these parts of mine,
Wish'd that I would with her fair Daughters twine:
But Liberty to me was far more sweet,
Than all the Pleasures of the Nuptial Sheet.
In my gay Youth I walk'd about proud Rome,
To view what Virgins there might overcome,
Which might be won; or which was fit to seek;
When at their sight, soft blushes stain'd my Cheek.
Now runs a smiling Girl her self to hide,
And yet not so, as not to be descry'd;
But by some single part to be reveal'd,
Gladder by much to be so ill conceal'd.
Thus did I fare, and acceptable pass
To all, and thus a lusty Suiter was,
And only so: For Nature my strong Brest,
In Modesty and Chastity had drest.
For whilst I strove the choicest Fair to wed,
I wore out Cold ev'n to a Widdow'd Bed.
They all to me ill bred, or ugly seem'd,
And I none worthy my Embraces deem'd.
I hated lean ones, fat were a Disease;
Neither the low; nor yet the tall would please.
With middle Forms I ever lov'd to play,
And in the midst most Graces ever lay.
Here of our softest parts lies all the bliss,
And in this part Loves Mother seated is.
A slender Lass not lean, I lov'd to chuse,
For Flesh is fittest for a fleshy use:
One whose most strait Embraces would delight,
Not one whose Bones should goar my Ribs in Fight.
I lov'd no Fair, unless her Cheeks were spread
With native Roses of the purest red.
This Tincture Venus owns above the rest,
And loves the Beauty in her Flower drest.
A long white Neck, and golden flowing Hair,
Have long been known to make a Woman fair.
But black Brows, and black Eyes catch my Desire,
And still, when seen, have set my Heart on fire.
I ever lov'd a red, and swelling Lip,
Where a full Bowl of Kisses I might sip,
A long round Neck than Gold appear'd more rare,
And the most wealthy Gem outshone by far.
Ill fits it Age, to speak his wanton prime,
And what was decent then, is now a Crime:
For various things do diff'rent Men delight,
Nor yet are all things for all Ages right;
Things apt for one Age, at the last may grow
Uncomely for the self-same Man to do.
The Child by play, th' old Man's by stead'ness seen,
But the young Man's Behaviour lies between.
This silent sadness best becomes, and that,
Is better lik'd of for his Mirth, and Chat:
For rolling times does all things turn, and sway,
And suffers none to run one certain way.

Now that a long unprofitable Age,
Lies heavy on me, I would quit the Stage.
Life's hard Condition gripes the Wretched still;
Nor is Death sway'd by any humane Will.
Tho Wretch wishes to die, but Death retires,
Yet when Men dread him, then the Slave aspires.
But I alass, that maugre all my Arts,
Have been so long dead in so many parts,
On Earth I think shall never end my Days,
But enter quick the dark Tartarean ways.
My Tast, and Hearing's ill, mine Eyes are such,
Nay I can scarce distinguish by my Touch:
No Smell is sweet; nor Pleasure; who'd believe
A Man could sensibly his Sense out-live?
Lethe's Oblivion does my Mind embrace,
And yet I can remember what I was.
The Limbs diseas'd, the Mind no Work contrives,
The thought of ills all other aim deprives.
I sing no Lyricks now, that dear Delight,
With all my Voices Grace, is perish'd quite;
Frequent no Exercise, no Odes rehearse,
And only with my Pains, and Griefs converse;
The Beauty of my Shape and Face are fled,
And my revolted Form 'fore-speaks me dead.
For fair, and shining Age has now put on
A bloodless, Funeral Complexion.
My Skin's dry'd up, my Nerves unpliant are,
And my poor Limbs my Nails plow up, and tear,
My chearful Eyes, now with a constant Spring,
Of Tears bewail their own sad Suffering;
And those soft Lids that once secur'd mine Eye,
Now rude, and bristled grown, does drooping lie,
Bolting mine Eyes, as in a gloomy Cave,
Which there on Furies, and grim Objects rave.
'Twould fright the full-blown Gallant to behold
The dying Object of a Man so old;
Nor can you think that once a Man he was,
Of humane reason, who no portion has.
The Letters split, when I consult my Book,
And ev'ry Leaf I turn'd does broader look.
In Darkness do I dream I see the Light,
When Light is Darkness to my perish'd Sight.
Without a Night t'oreshade him, the bright Day
Is from my Sense depriv'd, and snatch'd away.
Who can deny, that wrap'd in Nights Embrace,
I groping lie in the Tartarean place?
What mad Adviser would a Man perswade
By his own Wish to be more wretched made?
Diseases now invade, and Dangers swarm,
Sweet Banquets now, and Entertainments harm
We're forc'd to wean our selves from grateful things
And though we live, avoid the sweets Life brings
And me, whom late, no accident could bend,
Now the meer Aliments of Life offend.
I would be full, am sick when I am so,
Should fast, but abstinence is hurtful too.
'Tis chang'd to surfeit now what once was Meat,
And that's now nauseous, which before was sweet
Venus, and Bacchus's Rites, now fruitless are,
That use to fill this Life's contingent Care.
Nature alone panting, and prostrate lies,
Caught in the ruin of her proper Vice.
Julip; nor Cordial now no Comfort give;
Nor ought that should a Patient sick relieve:
But with their Matter their Corruption have,
And only serve to importune my Grave.
When I attempt to prop my falling Frame,
The Letts oppos'd, make my Endeavours lame.
Until my Dissolutions tardy day
All helps of Arts do with the thing decay
And by th' appearance since th' afflicted Mind
Can no diversion, nor advantage find;
Is it not hard we may not from Mens Eyes
Cloak, and conceal Ages Indecencies.
Unseeming Spruceness th' old Man discommends;
And in old Men only to live offends.
With Mirth, Feasts, Songs, the old must not dispense,
O wretched they whose Joys are an offence!
What should I do with Wealth, whose use being ta'ne,
Although I swim in store, I poor remain:
Nay 'tis a Sin to what we have got to trust,
And what's our own to violate unjust.
So thirsty Tantalus the neighbour Stream,
And Fruit would tast, but is forbidden them.
I but the Treas'rer am of my own Pelf,
Keeping for others what's deny'd my self:
And like the Fell Hesperian Dragon grown,
Defend that golden Fruit's no more my own.
This above all is that augments my Woes,
And robs my troubl'd Mind of all Repose.
I strive to keep things I could never gain,
And ignorantly hold some things in vain.
Continu'd Fears do credulous age invade;
And th' old Man dreads the ills himself has made,
Applauds the past, condemns the present Years;
And only what he thinks Truth, Truth appears:
He only learned is, has all the skill,
And thinking himself wise, is wider still.
Who though with Trouble he much Talk affords,
Faulters, forgets, and dribbles out his Words;
The Hearer's tir'd, but he continues long;
O wretched Age, only in prating strong!
Idly he talks, and strains his feeble Voice,
Whilst those he pleas'd before, laugh at his noise.
Their Mirth exalts him, he still louder grows,
And dotingly his own Reproach allows:
These are Death's Firstlings, Age does this way flow,
And with slow pace creeps to the Shades below.
Whilst the same Colour Meen, nor pace appear
In the poor Traveller that lately vvere.
My Garment from my vvither'd Limbs hangs down,
And vvhat before too short, too long is grovvn.
We strangely are contracted, and decrease,
A Man vvould think our very Bones vvere less.
Our burthen'd Age cannot the Heav'ns behold,
But prone still looks upon the parent Mold.
On three Feet first vve halt, on four next fall,
And on the Earth like helpless Infants crawl.
To their first Birth and Mother all things tend,
And vvhat vvas nothing shall in nothing end.
Hence 'tis that learning Age the senseless Ground,
Does with his bending Crutch so often wound.
And with thick steps making a tardy way,
In a hoarse Voice may thus be thought to say;
Receive me, Mother, to remorse incline,
And in thy Lap cherish these Limbs of mine.
The Children vvhoot me vvheresoe're I go;
Why wilt thou let thy Birth so monstrous grovv?
I vvith the Gods have novv no more to do,
Each Office of my Life I have run through.
My vvasted Carcass then at last restore,
To the cold Clay from vvhence I came before.
To spin a miserable Life in smart,
Of a Maternal Care can be no part.
Then propping his vveak Joynts, he feebly cravvls,
And on his weary Bed neglected falls.
Lying like livid Corps of Life bereft,
Only the rafters of the Building left.
Should I still lie, and lying win more space,
Yet who would think me in a living place?
'Tis pain to live, with heat we burn, not warm,
The Clouds offend, the Air, and Coldness harm.
The Dew, and soft Showers that in April flow,
With Autumns jocund Days offensive grow.
Coughs, Flegm, and Leprosies afflict the old,
And ages minutes by his Groans are told.
How can I him a living Man believe,
Whom Light, and Air, by which he panteth, grieve
Those gentle Sleeps which other Mortals ease,
Scarce in a Winters Night mine Eye-lids seise;
Or if it come to shade my setting Beams,
Tis clad in all the shapes of frightful Dreams.
The softest Feather-beds seem hard as Stones,
And lightest Quilts oppress my naked Bones.
I quit my Bed at mid-night to the Floor,
And suffer much, I may not suffer more.
Our own Infirmities our selves invade,
And by the way we hate, we're Captives made.
Our Entrails suffer Dissolution,
By which the noble Structure is o'rethrown.
Unlookt for Age, o'reburthen'd with these things,
Has learnt to bow under the weight he brings.
Who therefore would desire in Griefs so four,
When the Minds vanisht, to prolong his hour?
Better die once, than dying live by far,
Making the Trunk the Senses Sepulchre;
But I repine not, my time wasted is,
And Nature's shame to open is amiss.
Sinewy Bulls in time invalid grow,
The Horse that once was fair's mishapen now.
Time tames the fury of the Lions wild,
And Age will make the Caspian Tygers mild.
Antiquity the Stones themselves will race,
And to old Time all Natures Works give place:
But I were best prevent mischance to come,
And by one blow anticipate my doom.
To haste a certain Ruin is less pain,
Than is the fear of Mischiefs that remain.
But in the other World what Torments are,
Suspends, and well becomes an old Man's Care.
Contempt, and Mischiefs ev'rywhere attend,
And in distress I find no helping Friend.
The Boys, and Girls deride me now forlorn,
And but to call me Sir, now think it scorn.
They jeer my Count'nance, and my feeble Pace,
And scoff that nodding Head that awful was:
And though I nothing see, I can perceive,
My Pains by this contempt redoubled grieve.
He's happy Merits a smooth Life to spend,
And shut his Days up with a constant end.
That's hard at last we Reputation call,
From which height tumbling, still augments the fall.