Infancy, straining backward from the breast, Tetchy and wayward, what he loveth best Refusing in his fits, whilst all the while The mother eyes the wrangler with a smile, And the fond father sits on t' other side, Laughs at his moods, and views his spleen with pride, 170 Shall murmur forth my name, whilst at his hand Nurse stands interpreter, through Gotham's land. Childhood, who like an April morn appears, Sunshine and rain, hopes clouded o'er with fears, Pleased and displeased by starts, in passion warm, In reason weak; who, wrought into a storm, Like to the fretful billows of the deep, Soon spends his rage, and cries himself asleep; Who, with a feverish appetite oppress'd, For trifles sighs, but hates them when possess'd; 180 His trembling lash suspended in the air, Half-bent, and stroking back his long lank hair, Shall to his mates look up with eager glee, And let his top go down to prate of me. Youth, who, fierce, fickle, insolent, and vain, Impatient urges on to Manhood's reign, Impatient urges on, yet with a cast Of dear regard looks back on Childhood past, In the mid-chase, when the hot blood runs high, And the quick spirits mount into his eye; 190 When pleasure, which he deems his greatest wealth, Beats in his heart, and paints his cheeks with health; When the chafed steed tugs proudly at the rein, And, ere he starts, hath run o'er half the plain; When, wing'd with fear, the stag flies full in view, And in full cry the eager hounds pursue, Shall shout my praise to hills which shout again, And e'en the huntsman stop to cry, Amen. Manhood, of form erect, who would not bow Though worlds should crack around him; on his brow 200 Wisdom serene, to passion giving law, Bespeaking love, and yet commanding awe; Dignity into grace by mildness wrought; Courage attemper'd and refined by thought; Virtue supreme enthroned; within his breast The image of his Maker deep impress'd; Lord of this earth, which trembles at his nod, With reason bless'd, and only less than God; Manhood, though weeping Beauty kneels for aid, Though Honour calls, in Danger's form array'd, 210 Though clothed with sackloth, Justice in the gates, By wicked elders chain'd, Redemption waits, Manhood shall steal an hour, a little hour, (Is't not a little one?) to hail my power. Old Age, a second child, by Nature cursed With more and greater evils than the first; Weak, sickly, full of pains, in every breath Railing at life, and yet afraid of death; Putting things off, with sage and solemn air, From day to day, without one day to spare; 220 Without enjoyment, covetous of pelf, Tiresome to friends, and tiresome to himself; His faculties impair'd, his temper sour'd, His memory of recent things devour'd E'en with the acting, on his shatter'd brain Though the false registers of youth remain; From morn to evening babbling forth vain praise