Seas hid with navies, chariots passing o'er The channel, on a bridge from shore to shore: Rivers, whose depth no sharp beholder sees, Drunk at an army's dinner to the lees; With a long legend of romantic things, Which in his cups the bowsy poet sings. But how did he return, this haughty brave, Who whipt the winds, and made the sea his slave? (Though Neptune took unkindly to be bound, } And Eurus never such hard usage found } In his Æolian prison under ground;) } What god so mean, even he who points the way,[152] So merciless a tyrant to obey! But how returned he, let us ask again? } In a poor skiff he passed the bloody main, } Choked with the slaughtered bodies of his train. } For fame he prayed, but let the event declare He had no mighty penn'worth of his prayer. Jove, grant me length of life, and years good store Heap on my bending back! I ask no more.-- Both sick and healthful, old and young, conspire In this one silly mischievous desire. Mistaken blessing, which old age they call, 'Tis a long, nasty, darksome hospital: A ropy chain of rheums; a visage rough, Deformed, unfeatured, and a skin of buff; A stitch-fallen cheek, that hangs below the jaw; Such wrinkles as a skilful hand would draw For an old grandame ape, when, with a grace, She sits at squat, and scrubs her leathern face. In youth, distinctions infinite abound; No shape, or feature, just alike are found; The fair, the black, the feeble, and the strong: } But the same foulness does to age belong. } The self-same palsy, both in limbs and tongue; } The skull and forehead one bald barren plain, And gums unarmed to mumble meat in vain; Besides, the eternal drivel, that supplies The dropping beard, from nostrils, mouth, and eyes. His wife and children lothe him, and, what's worse, Himself does his offensive carrion curse! Flatterers forsake him too; for who would kill Himself, to be remembered in a will? His taste not only pall'd to wine and meat, But to the relish of a nobler treat. The limber nerve, in vain provoked to rise, Inglorious from the field of battle flies; Poor feeble dotard! how could he advance With his blue head-piece, and his broken lance? Add, that, endeavouring still, without effect, A lust more sordid justly we suspect. Those senses lost, behold a new defeat, The soul dislodging from another seat. What music, or enchanting voice, can cheer A stupid, old, impenetrable ear? No matter in what place, or what degree Of the full theatre he sits to see; Cornets and trumpets cannot reach his ear;