That most unhappy Age great pity needs,
Which to defend itself new matter pleads.
Not from grey hairs authority doth flow,
Nor from bald heads, nor from a wrinkled brow,
But our past life, when virtuously spent,
Must to our Age those happy fruits present.
Those things to Age most honourable are
Which easy, common, and but light appear,
Salutes, consulting, compliment, resort,
Crowding attendance to and from the court: 210
And not on Rome alone this honour waits,
But on all civil and well-govern'd states.
Lysander pleading in his city's praise,
From thence his strongest argument did raise,
That Sparta did with honour Age support,
Paying them just respect at stage and court:
But at proud Athens youth did Age outface,
Nor at the plays would rise or give them place.
When an Athenian stranger of great Age
Arriv'd at Sparta, climbing up the stage,
To him the whole assembly rose, and ran
To place and ease this old and reverend man,
Who thus his thanks returns,
'What's to be done; but what they know not do.' Here our great Senate's orders I may quote, The first in Age is still the first in vote.
Nor honour, nor high birth, nor great command, In competition with great years may stand.
Why should our youth's short transient pleasures dare
With Age's lasting honours to compare?
On the world's stage,when our applause grows high,
For acting here life's tragic comedy,
The lookers-on will say we act not well,
Unless the last the former scenes excel.
But Age is froward, uneasy, scrutinous,
Hard to be pleas'd, and parsimonious.
But all those errors from our manners rise,
Not from our years; yet some morosities
We must expect, since jealousy belongs
To Age, of scorn, and tender sense of wrongs: 240
Yet those are mollify'd, or not discern'd,
Where civil arts and manners have been learn'd:
So the Twins' humours, in our Terence *, are
Unlike, this harsh and rude, that smooth and fair.
Our nature here is not unlike our wine;
Some sorts, when old, continue brisk and fine;
So Age's gravity may seem severe,
But nothing harsh or bitter ought t' appear.
Of Age's avarice I cannot see
What colour, ground, or reason, there should be:
Is it not folly when the way we ride
Is short for a long voyage to provide?
To avarice some title youth may own,
To reap in autumn what the spring had sown ;
And, with the providence of becs or ants,
Prevent with summer's plenty winter's wants:
In his comedy called Adelphi,
But Age scarce sows till Death stands by to reap,
And to a stranger's hand transfers the heap:
Afraid to be so once, she's always poor
And to avoid a mischief makes it sure.
Such madness as for fear of death to die,
Is to be poor for fear of poverty.
Now against (that which terrifies our Age)
The last and greatest grievance we engage;
To her grim death appears in all her shapes,
The hungry grave for her due tribute gapes.
Fond, foolish man! with fear of death surpris'd, 5
Which either should be wish'd for or despis'd:
This, if our souls with bodies death destroy;
That, if our souls a second life enjoy.
What else is to be fear'd, when we shall gain
Eternal life, or have no sense of pain?
The youngest in the morning are not sure
That till the night their life they can secure;
Their Age stands more expos'd to accidents
Than ours, nor common care their fate prevents:
Death's force (with terror) against Nature strives,
Nor one of many to ripe Age arrives.
From this ill fate the world's disorders rise,
For if all men were old they would be wise.
Years and experience our forefathers taught,
Them under laws and into cities brought.
Why only should the fear of death belong
To Age, which is as common to the young?
Your hopeful brothers, and my son, to you,
Scipio! and me, this maxim makes too true.
But vig'rous youth may his gay thoughts erect 25
To many years, which Age must not expect.
But when he sees his airy hopes deceiv'd,
With grief he says, Who this would have believ'd?
We happier are than they who but desir'd
To possess that which we long since acquir'd. 30
What if our Age to Nestor's could extend?
"Tis vain to think that lasting which must end;
And when 'tis past, not any part remains
'Thereof but the reward which virtue gains.
Days, months, and years, like running waters flow,
Nor what is past nor what's to come we know. 36
Our date, how short soe'er, must us content.
When a good actor doth his part present,
In ev'ry act he our attention draws,
That at the last he may find just applause;
So tho' but short, yet we must learn the art
Of virtue on this stage to act our part,
True wisdom must our actions so direct,
Not only the last plaudit to expect;
Yet grieve no more, tho' long that part should last,
Than husbandmen because the spring is past. 46
The spring, like youth, fresh blossoms doth produce,
But autumn makes them ripe and fit for use:
So Age a mature mellowness doth set
On the green promises of youthful heat.
All things which Nature did ordain are good,
And so must be receiv'd and understood.
Age, like ripe apples, on earth's bosom drops,
While force our youth, like fruits untimely crops:
The sparkling flame of our warm blood expires, 55
As when huge streams are pour'd on raging fires;
But Age unforc'd falls by her own consent,
As coals to ashes, when the spirit's spent:
Therefore to death I with such joy resort,
As seamen from a tempest to their port:
Yet to that port ourselves we must not force,
Before our pilot, Nature, steers our course.
Let us the causes of our fear condemn,
Then Death at his approach we shall contemn.
Tho' to our heat of youth our Age seems cold, 65
Yet when resolv'd it is more brave and bold.
Thus Solon to Pisistratus reply'd,
Demanded on what succour he rely'd,
When with so few he boldly did engage?
He said he took his courage from his Age.
Then death seems welcome, and our nature kind,
When, leaving us a perfect sense and mind,
She (like a workman in his science skill’d)
Pulls down with ease what her own hand did build.
That art which knew to join all parts in one
Makes the least vi'lent separation.
Yet tho' our ligaments betimes grow weak,'
We must not force them till themselves they break,
Pythagoras bids us in our station stand,
Till God, our general, shall us disband.
Wise Solon dying, wish'd his friends might grieve
That in their memories he still might live;
|