But and the cruell fates so fixed be, That time forepast cannot returne againe, This one request of Ioue yet prayed he: That in such withred plight, and wretched paine, As _eld_ (accompanied with lothsome traine) Had brought on him, all were it woe and griefe, He might a while yet linger forth his life, And not so soone descend into the pit: Where Death, when he the mortall corps hath slaine, With wretchlesse hand in graue doth couer it, Thereafter neuer to enioy againe The gladsome light, but in the ground ylaine, In depth of darknesse waste and weare to nought, As he had nere into the world been brought. But who had seene him, sobbing how he stood Vnto himselfe, and how he would bemone His youth forepast, as though it wrought him good To talke of youth, all were his youth foregone, He would haue musde and maruail’d much whereon This wretched Age should life desire so faine, And knowes ful wel life doth but length his paine. Crookebackt he was, toothshaken, and blere eyde, Went on three feete, and sometime crept on foure, With old lame bones, that ratled by his side, His scalpe all pil’d, and he with eld forelore: His withred fist still knocking at Deaths dore, Fumbling and driueling as he drawes his breath, For briefe, the shape and messenger of Death.’