Why should fond man to his owne wrong
A weary life seeke to prolong
By those detected cheats of art
That only add unto the smart,
The growing malady and paine
Of life, of which wee so complaine?
As if there could bee a new way
To make things prosper by decay;
As if a tree showld wider spread,
By loosing sap, its graceful head;
Or higher towards heaven shoot,
For being hollow att the root.
Med'cine helps old men only so
As burnings are allay'd by snow,
Which often makes us worse endure,
Cheating the paine itt cannot cure;
And to death only mends our pace,
As painting sooner spoiles a face.
But say wee could, when once grown old,
Our ruines by such props uphold,
Who would, to his own peace untrue,
His lease of misery renew?
The young, who in soft pleasures live,
May well solicite a reprieve,
When death does threaten, since they doe
Nothing but life and pleasure know.
But they to whom living alone
Is hourely execution,
Should not evade methincks the cure
Of all the doloures they endure.
What, when cold cramps our limbs invade,
When nature's visibly decay'd,
When all our youthful vigour's gone,
Sight, hearing, taste, complexion
Are fled, and faded, when all sence,
Nay worse, when all intelligence
(Which only human life does blesse)
Is turn'd into forgettfulnesse,
Or sees but in a magic glasse,
The ayery fine young thing it was,
What is there then, O then I say,
Showld make us longer wish to stay?
'Tis not the palsey, nor the gout,
The tissick, nor the num'rous rout
Of ling'ring paines old men best name,
Which we can rationally blame.
Old age itself is the disease,
Whose wretched traine consists of these.
For as health, vigour, beauty, grace,
Gayetie, and disposednesse,
Make up its spritely equipage
T' our morning and meridian age;
So is old age attended by
All sorts of paine and misery,
More faithful followers by farre
Than th' other briske attendants are,
Who falsely with our fortunes fly:
These never leave us 'till we dye.
Age is th' effect of time, and course,
In which, alasse, there's no ressource;
Art, that is so ador'd, and great,
Can here but little glory gett,
Who, where faint nature does refuse
T' assist, must needs her credit loose.
Physic itself, that sowv'raigne friende,
To humane kind must misse her end,
And short in her endeavour falls
With all her herbs and mineralls,
And but afflicts the patient more,
In weak'ning what shee can't restore.
Cease then, old man, thy fate t'eschew,
As youth has had, give age itt's due,
Lye downe, and dye, and so make roome
For him whose turne 'tis next to come.