No matter in what place, or what degree
Of the full theatre he sits to see;
Cornets and trumpets cannot reach his ear:
Under an actor's nose, he's never near.

His boy must bawl, to make him understand
The hour o' th' day, or such a lord's at hand:
The little blood that creeps within his veins,
Is but just warm'd in a hot fever's pains.
In fine, he wears no limb about him sound:
With sores and sicknesses beleagur'd round:
Ask me their names, I sooner could relate
How many drudges on salt Hippia wait;
What crowds of patients the town-doctor kills,
Or how, last fall, he rais'd the weekly bills.
What provinces by Basilus were spoil'd,
What herds of heirs by guardians are beguil'd:
What lands and lordships for their owner know
My quondam barber, but his worship now.

This dotard of his broken back complains, One his legs fail, and one his shoulders pains: Another is of both his eyes bereft;

And envies who has one for aiming left.
A fifth, with trembling lips expecting stands,
As in his childhood, cramm'd by others hands;
One, who at sight of supper open'd wide
His jaws before, and whetted grinders ty'd;
Now only yawns, and waits to be supply'd:
Like a young swallow, when with weary wings
Expected food her fasting mother brings.

His loss of members is a heavy curse, But all his faculties delay'd, are worse! His servants names he has forgotten quite;

Knows not his friend who supp'd with him last night.
Not ev❜n the children he begot and bred;
Or his will knows them not: for, in their stead,
In form of law, a common hackney-jade,
Sole heir, for secret services, is made:
So lewd and such a batter'd brothel-whore,
That she defies all comers, at her door.
Well, yet suppose his senses are his own,
He lives to be chief mourner for his son:
Before his face his wife and mother burns:
He numbers all his kindred in their urns.
These are the fines he pays for living long;
And dragging tedious age in his own wrong:
Griefs always green, a household still in tears,
Sad pomps: a threshold throng'd with daily biers;
And liveries of black for length of years.

Next to the raven's age, the Pylian king
Was longest-liv'd of any two-legg'd thing;
Blest, to defraud the grave so long, to mount
His number'd years, and on his right-hand count;
Three hundred seasons, guzzling must of wine:
But, hold a-while, and hear himself repine
At Fate's unequal laws; and at the clue
Which, merciless in length, the midmost sister drew.
When his brave son upon his funeral pyre
He saw extended, and his beard on fire;

He turn'd, and, weeping, ask'd his friends what
Had curs'd his age to this unhappy time? [crime
Thus mourn'd old Peleus for Achilles slain,
And thus Ulyssus' father did complain,
How fortunate an end had Priam made,
Amongst his ancestors a mighty shade,

While Troy yet stood: when Hector, with the race
Of royal bastards, might his funeral grace:
Amidst the tears of Trojan dames inurn'd,
And by his loyal daughters truly mourn'd!
Had heaven so blest him, he had dy'd before
The fatal fleet of Sparta Paris bore.
But mark what age produc'd; he liv'd to see
His town in flames, his falling monarchy:
In fine, the feeble sire, reduc'd by fate,
To change his sceptre for a sword, too late,
His last effort before Jove's altar tries ;
A soldier half, and half a sacrifice:

Falls like an ox, that waits the coming blow;
Old and unprofitable to the plough.

At last he dy'd a man; his queen surviv'd,
To howl, and in a barking body liv'd.

I hasten to our own; nor will relate Great Mithridates, and rich Crœsus' fate; Whom Solon wisely counsel'd to attend The name of happy, till he knew his end.

That Marius was an exile, that he fled, Was ta'en, in ruin'd Carthage begg'd his bread, All these were owing to a life too long: For whom had Rome beheld so happy, young!

High in his chariot, and with laurel crown'd,
When he had left the Cambrian captives round
The Roman streets; descending from his state,
In that blest hour he should have beg'd his fate;
Then, then, he might have dy'd of all admir'd,
And his triumphant soul with shouts expir'd.
Campania, fortune's malice to prevent,
To Pompey an indulgent favour sent:
But public prayers impos'd on heaven, to give
Their much-lov'd leader and unkind reprieve.
The city's fate and his conspir'd to save
The head, reserv'd for an Egyptian slave.
Cethegus, tho' a traitor to the state.

And tortur'd, 'scap'd this ignominious fate : And Sergius, who a bad cause bravely try'd, *All of a piece, and undiminish'd, dy'd.

To Venus, the fond mother makes a prayer, That all her sons and daughters may be fair: True, for the boys a mumbling vow she sends; But for the girls, the vaulted temple rends: They must be finish'd pieces: 'tis allow'd Diana's beauty made Latona proud: And pleas'd, to see the wondering people pray To the new-rising sister of the day.

And yet Lucretia's fate would bar that vow: And fair Virginia would her fate bestow On Rutila; and change her faultless make For the foul rumple of her carnel-back.

But, for his mother's boy the beau, what freights His parents have by day, what anxious nights!

Form, join'd with virtue, is a sight too rare: Chaste is no epithet to suit with fair. Suppose the same traditionary strain

Of riggid manners, in the house remain ; Inveterate truth, an old plain Sabine's heart; Suppose that Nature, too, has done her part; Infus'd into his soul a sober grace,

And blusht a modest blood into his face, (For Nature is a better guardian far, Than saucy pedants, or dull tutors are :) Yet still the youth must ne'er arrive at man; (So much almighty bribes, and presents, can ;) Ev'n with a parent, where persuasions fail, Money is impudent, and will prevail.

We never read of such a tyrant king Who gelt a boy deform'd, to hear him sing. Nor Nero, in his more luxurious rage, E'er made a mistress of an ugly page: Sporus, his spouse, nor crooked was, nor lame, With mountain-back, and belly, from the game Cross-barr'd: but both his sexes well became. Go, boast your Springal, by his beauty curst To ills; nor think I have declar'd the worst; His form procures him journey-work; a strife Betwixt town-madams and the merchant's wife: Guess, when he undertakes his public war, What furious beasts offended cuckolds are.

Adulterers are with dangers round beset; Born under Mars, they cannot 'scape the net;