Under an actor's nose he's never near. His boy must bawl, to make him understand The hour o'the day, or such a lord's at hand; The little blood that creeps within his veins, Is but just warmed in a hot fever's pains. In fine, he wears no limb about him sound, With sores and sicknesses beleaguered 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 raised the weekly bills; What provinces by Basilus were spoiled; What herds of heirs by guardians are beguiled; How many bouts a-day that bitch has tried; How many boys that pedagogue can ride; 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 shoulder 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, crammed by others hands; One, who at sight of supper opened wide } His jaws before, and whetted grinders tried, } Now only yawns, and waits to be supplied; } 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 decayed, a worse. His servants' names he has forgotten quite; Knows not his friend who supped with him last night: Not even 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 battered 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 brother 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 thronged with daily biers, } And liveries of black for length of years. } Next to the raven's age, the Pylian king[153] Was longest lived of any two-legged thing. Blest, to defraud the grave so long, to mount His numbered years, and on his right hand count![154] 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.[155] When his brave son upon the funeral pyre He saw extended, and his beard on fire, He turned, and, weeping, asked his friends, what crime Had cursed his age to this unhappy time?