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The spring, like youth, fresh blossoms doth pro. Why shouldst thou try to hide thyself in youth ?


But autumn makes them ripe, and fit for use : Impartial Proserpine beholds the truth;

So age a mature mellowness doth set
And laughing at so vain and fond a task,
Will strip thy hoary noddle of its mask.

On the green promises of youthful heat.

We'll mutually forget

Age, like ripe apples, on earth's bosom drops;

While sorce our youth, like fruits, untimely The warmth of youth and frowardness of age.


Sir J. DENHAM. Young men soon give, and soon forget affronts;

To elder years to be discreet and grave,
Old age is slow in both.

Then to old age maturity she gave.

Now wasting years my former strength confound,
And added woes have bow'd me to the ground:

Who this observes, may in his body find Yet by the stubble you may guess the grain,

Decrepit age, but never in his mind. And mark the ruins of no common man.

SIR J. DENHAM. BROOME. Of Age's avarice I cannot see What is the worst of woes that wait on age ?

What colour, ground, or reason there can be;

Is it not folly, when the way we ride
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?
To view each loved one blotted from life's page,

Is short, for a long journey to provide ?
And be alone on earth as I am now.

Sir J. DENHAM. Before the Chastener humbly let me bow Not from grey hairs authority doth flow, O'er hearts divided, and o'er hopes destroy’d. Nor from bald heads, nor from a wrinkled brow;

BYRON: Childe Harold. But our past life, when virtuously spent, 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,

Must to our age those happy fruits present.

Sir J. DENHAM. And coming events cast their shadows before. CAMPBELL: Lochiel's Warning.

Age is froward, uneasy, scrutinous, Nor can the snow that age does shed

Ilard to be pleased, and parsimonious. Upon thy rev'rend head,

Sir J. DENHAM. Quench or allay the noble fire within ;

Authority kept up, old age secures,
But all that youth can be thou art.

Whose dignity as long as life endures.

Now then the ills of age, its pains, its care,
The drooping spirit for its fate prepare;

Old husbandmen I at Sabinum know, And each affection failing, leaves the heart Who for another year dig, plough, and sow; Loosed from life's charm, and willing to depart. For never any man was yet so old,

CRABBE. But hoped his lise one winter more would hold. Our nature here is not unlike our wine;

SIR J. DENHAM. Some sorts, when old, continue brisk and fine:

Age by degrees invisibly doth creep, So age's gravity may seem severe,

Vor do we seem to die, but fall asleep. But nothing harsh or bitter ought t'appear.

Sir J. DENHAM. SIR J. DENHAM. Those trifles wherein children take delight

Old age, with silent pace, ccmes creeping on, Grow nauseous to the young man's appetite,

Nauseates the praise which in her youth she won, And from those gaieties our youth requires

And hates the muse by which she was undore

DRYDEN. To exercise their minds, our age retires.


Thus daily changing, by degrees I'd waste, Age's chief arts, and arms, are to grow wise ; Still quitting ground by unperceived decay, Virtue to know, and known, to exercise. And steal myself from life, and melt away. SIR J. DENHAM.


Prudence, thou vainly in our youth art sought,

Age has not yet And with age purchased, art too dearly bought: So shrunk my sinews, or so chill'd my veins, We're past the use of wit for which we toil: But conscious virtue in my breast remains.

DRYDEN. Late fruit, and planted in too cold a soil.


Were I no queen, did you my beauty weigh, Our green youth copies what grey sinners act,

My youth in bloom, your age in its decay. When age commends the fact.


Now leave these joys, unsuiting to thy age, His youth and age

To a fresh comer, and resign the stage. All of a piece throughout, and all divine.


Just in the gate Yet unimpair'd with labours, or with time,

Dwelt pale diseases and repining age. Your age but seems to a new youth to climb.


Beroe but now I left; whom, pined with pain, He lunk'd in years, yet in his years were seen

Her age and anguish from these rites detain. A youthful vigor, and autumnal green.

DRYDEN. DRYDEN. You season still with sports your serious hours, O'er whom Time gently shakes his wings of For age but tastes of pleasures, youth devours.


Till with his silent sickle they are mown.

This advantage youth from age hath won,
As not to be outridden though outrun.

Jove, grant me length of life, and years good DRYDEN.

store When the hoary head is hid in snow,

Heap on my bended back.

DRYDEN. The life is in the leaf, and still between The fits of falling snows appears the streaky The feeble old, indulgent of their ease. green.


Thus then my loved Euryalus appears; What, start at this! when sixty years have

He looks the prop of my declining years. spread


grey experience o'er thy hoary head ? Is this the all observing age could gain ? Of no distemper, of no blast he died, Or hast thou known the world so long in vain? But fell like autumn fruit that mellow'd long;

DRYDEN. Even wonder'd at, because he dropt no sooner.

Fate seem'd to wind him up for fourscore years; So noiseless would I live, such death to find : Like timely fruit, not shaken by the wind,

Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more:

Till like a clock worn out with eating time, But ripely dropping from the sapless bough.

The wheels of weary life at last stood still. DRYDEN.

DRYDEN: Edipu.. Time has made you dote, and vainly tell 0! arms imagined in your lonely cell:

These I wielded while my bloom was warm, Go be the temple and the gods your care;

Ere age unstrung my nerves, or time o'erPermit to men the thought of peace and war.

snow'd my head. DRYDEN,

DRYDEN. Time seems not now beneath his

A look so pale no quartane ever gave;

years Sor do his wings with sickly feathers droop.

My dwindled legs seem crawling to a grave. DRYDEN.

DRYDEN: Juvenal. And sin's black dye seems blanch'd by age to

These are the effects of doting age, virtue.

Vain doubts, and idle cares, and over caution. DRYDEN.

DRYDEN: Scbastian.


to stoop,

your fill:

Ripe age bade him surrender late

So mayst thou live, till, like ripe fruit, thou drop His life and long good fortune unto final fate. Into thy mother's lap; or be with ease FAIRFAX. Gather'd, not harshly pluck'd.

MILTON. How blest is he who crowns, in shades like

And may at last my weary age

Find out the peaceful hermitage,
A youth of labour with an age of ease!
GOLDSMITH: Deserted l'illage.

The hairy gown and mossy cell,

Where I may sit and rightly spell
Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days Of every star that heaven doth shew
Have led their children through the mirthful And every herb that sips the dew;

Till old experience do attain
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, To something like prophetic strain.
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore.

MILTON: Il Penseroso.
GOLDSMITH: Traveller.

Such drowsy sedentary souls have they
An age that melts in unperceived decay, Who would to patriarchal years live on,
And glides in modest innocence away.

Fix'd to hereditary clay,
Dr. S. JOHNSON: Vanity of Human IVishes. And know no climate but their own.
In life's last scene what prodigies surprise,

Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise !

Learn to live well, or fairly make your will; From Marlb’rough's eyes the streams of dotage You've play'd, and loved, and ate, and drank

flow, And Swift expires a driv'ler and a show. Walk sober off before a sprightlier age DR. S. JOHNSON: Vanity of Human Wishes.

Comes tittering on, and shoves you from the Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage.

stage: DR. S. JOHNSON: Vanity of Human IVishes.

Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease,

Whom folly pleases, and whose follies please. The still returning tale, and lingering jest,

Perplex the fawning niece, and pamper'd guest,
While growing hopes scarce awe the gath’ring So peaceful shalt thou end thy blissful days,

And steal thyself from life by slow decays.
And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear.

DR. S. JOHNSON: Vanity of Human Wishes.

Wasting years that wither human race,
Thou must outlive
Exhaust thy spirits, and thy arms unbrace.

Pope. Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will change

He now, observant of the parting ray,
To wither’d, weak, and grey.

Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day.

POPE. Better at home lie bed-rid, idle,

Has life no sourness, drawn so near its end?
Inglorious, unemploy'd, with age outworn.

Till length of

Why will you break the sabbath of my days,

Now sick alike of envy and of praise? And sedentary numbness, craze my limbs

POPE. To a contemptible old age obscure. MILTON. In years he seem'd, but not impair’d by years.

POPE. To what can I be useful, wherein serve, But to sit idle on the household hearth,

The poor, the rich, the valiant, and the sage, A burd’nous drone, to visitants a gaze?

And boasting youth, and narrative old age.

Pope. My hasting days fly on with full career, But if you'll prosper, mark what I advise, But my late spring no bud nor blossom sheweth. Whom age and long experience render wise. MILTON,


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Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Till future infancy, baptized by thee,
Charm'd the small-pox, or chased old age away, Grow ripe in years, and old in piety.
Who would not scorn what housewife's cares

PRIOR. produce?

Then old age and experience, hand in hand, Or who would learn one earthly thing of use ?

Lead him to death and make him understand, POPE.

After a search so painful and so long, Propp'd on his staff, and stooping as he goes,

That all his life he had been in the wrong.

ROCHESTER. A painted mitre shades his surrow'd brows; The god, in this decrepit form array'd,

Boys must not have th' ambitious care of men; The gardens enter'd, and the fruits survey'd.

Nor men the weak anxieties of age.

ROSCOMMON. She still renews the ancient scene;

Age sits with decent grace upon his visage,
Forgets the forty years between;
Awkwardly gay and oddly merry;

And worthily becomes his silver locks;

He wears the marks of many years well spent, Her scarf pale pink, her head-knot cherry.

Of virtue, truth well tried, and wise experience

ROWE: Jane Shore. And on this forehead (where your verse has said

Thou, full of days, like weighty shocks of corn, The loves delighted, and the graces play'd) Insulting age will trace his cruel way,

In season reap'd, shalt to thy grave be borne.

GEORGE SANDYS. And leave sad marks of his destructive sway.


Nor should their age by years be told,

Whose souls more swift than motion climb, So shall I court thy dearest truth

And check the tardy flight of time. When beauty ceases to engage:

So thinking on thy charming youth,
I'll love it o'er again in age.

On his bold visage middle age

Had slightly press'd its signet sage.
Kindness itself too weak a charm will prove

Sir W. Scott: Lady of the Lake. To raise the seeble fires of aged love.


Hard toil can roughen form and face,

And want can quench the eye's bright grace; By one countless sum of woes opprest,

Nor does old age a wrinkle trace Hoary with cares, and ignorant of rest,

More deeply than despair. We find the vital springs relax'd and worn:

SIR W. SCOTT: Marmion. Thus, through the round of age, to childhood

Thus pleasures fade away; we return.

PRIOR. Youth, talents, beauty thus decay,

And leave us dark, forlorn, and gray. By weak’ning toil and hoary age o'ercome,

Sir W. SCOTT: Marmion. See thy decrease, and hasten to thy tomb.


Thou hast not youth or age;

But as it were an after-dinner sleep, Then, in full age, and hoary holiness,

Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth Retire, great teacher, to thy promised bliss : Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms l'ntouch'd thy tomb, uninjured be thy dust, Of palsy'd eld: and when thou'rt old and rich, As thy own fame among the future just ! Thou'st neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,

To make thy riches pleasant.

The remnant of his days he safely past,
Norfound they lagg’d too slow, nor flew too fast;

You are old : He made his wish with his estate comply,

Nature in you stands on the very verge
Joyful to live, yet not afraid to die.

Of her confine.


Though now this grained face of mine be hid I have lived long enough: my way of life
In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow, Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf :
And all the conduits of my blood froze up, And that which should accompany old age,
Yet hath my night of life some memory. As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
SHAKSPEARE. I must not look to have.

SHAKSPEARE Nature, as it grows again tow'rds earth,

You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, Is fashion d for the journey, dull and heavy.

As full of grief as age; wretched in both.

SHAKSPEARE. 'Tis our first intent

Let him keep To shake all cares and business from our age, A hundred knights; yes, that on ev'ry dream, While we unburthen'd crawl tow'rd death. Each buz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike, SHAKSPEARE. He may enguard his dotage.

SHAKSPEARE. What should we speak of

Come, my lord; When we are old as you? When we shall hear We will bestow you in some better place, The rain and wind beat dark December.

Fitter for sickness and for crazy age.

Youth no less becomes

O heavens!
The light and careless livery that it wears, If you do love old men, if your sweet sway
Than settled age his sables and his weeds, Allow obedience, if yourselves are old,
Importing health and graveness.

Make it your cause.

SHAKSPEARE. How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!

I thought the remnant of mine age I have long dream'd of such a kind of man,

Should have been cherished by her childlike So surfeit-swell’d, so old, and so profane.



The sixth age shifts Would some part of my young years

Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, Might but redeem the passage of your age! With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ;


His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale For his shrunk shanks.

SHAKSPEARE. Her infinite variety. SHAK PEARE.

Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history, Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion; And each hour's joy wreckd with a week of

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Let not old age disgrace my high desire,
At your age

O heavenly soul, in human shape contain'd! The heyday in the blood is tame, it's humble,

Old wood intamed doth yield the bravest fire, And waits upon the judgment.

When younger doth in smoke his virtue spend.

Let's take the instant by the forward top: From pert to stupid sinks supinel down,
For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees

In youth a coxcomb, and in ve a clown. Th' inaudible and noiseless foot of time

SPECTATOR. Steals, ere we can effect them.

Dotard, said he, let be thy deep advise,

Seems that through many years thy wits thee An old man, broken with the storms of state,

fail, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye: And that weak eld hath le't thee nothing wise, Give him a little earth for charity.

Else never should thy judgment be so frail. SHAKSPEARE.

SPENSER: Faerie Qucene.

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