“Being come now to write full man, if I have an estate how many cares, suits, and wrangles go along with it! If I have none, what murmuring and regret at my misfortunes! By this time, the sins of my youth are gotten into my bones; I grow sour and melancholy; nothing pleases me; I curse old age to ten thousand devils; and the youth which I can never recover in my veins, I endeavour to fetch out of the barbers’ shops, from perruques, razors, and patches, to conceal, or at least disguise all the marks and evidences of Nature in her decay. Nay, when I shall have never an eye to see with nor a tooth left in my head, gouty legs, wind-mills in my crown, my nose running like a tap, and gravel in my reins by the bushel, then must I make oath that all this is nothing but mere accident, gotten by lying in the field, or the like, and out-face the truth in the very teeth of so many undeniable witnesses. There is no plague comparable to this hypocrisy of the members. To have an old fop shake his heels, when he’s ready to fall to pieces; and cry, these legs would make a shift yet to play with the best legs in the company; and then, with a lusty thump on’s breast, fetch ye up a hem, and cry, ‘Sound at heart, boy,’ and a thousand other fooleries of the like nature. But all this is nothing to the misery of an old fellow in love, especially if he be put to gallant it against a company of young gamesters. Oh the inward shame and vexation, to see himself scarce so much as neglected. It happens sometimes that a jolly lady, for want of better entertainment, may content herself with one of these reverend fornicators, instead of a whetstone; but alack, alack! the poor man is weak though willing; and after a whole night spent in cold and frivolous pretences and excuses, away he goes with torments of rage and confusion about him, not to be expressed; and many a heavy curse is sent after him for keeping a poor lady from her natural rest to so little purpose. How often must I be put to the blush too, when every old toast shall be calling me old acquaintance, and telling me, ‘Oh sir, ’tis many a fair day since you and I knew one another first. I think ’twas in the four and thirtieth of the Queen, that we were school-fellows. How the world’s altered since!’ etc. And then must my head be turned to a _memento mori_; my flesh dissolved into rheums; my skin withered and wrinkled; with a staff in my hand, knocking the earth at every trembling step, as if I called upon my grave to receive me; walking, like a moving phantosme; my life little more than a dream; my reins and bladder turned into a perfect quarry; and the urinal or pisspot my whole study. My next heir watching, every minute, for the long-looked-for and happy hour of my departure; and in the meantime, I’m become the physician’s revenue, and the surgeon’s practice, with an apothecary’s shop in my guts; and every old jade calling me grandsire. No, no; I’ll no more living again, I thank ye: one hell