Early, bright, transient, chaste, as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven. Time on this head has snow'd; yet still 'tis borne 602 Aloft; nor thinks but on another's grave. Cover'd with shame I speak it, age severe Old worn-out vice sets down for virtue fair; With graceless gravity, chastising youth, That youth chastised surpassing in a fault, Father of all, forgetfulness of death: As if, like objects pressing on the sight, Death had advanced too near us to be seen: 610 Or, that life's loan Time ripen'd into right; And men might plead prescription from the grave; Deathless, from repetition of reprieve. Deathless? far from it! such are dead already; Their hearts are buried, and the world their grave. Tell me, some god! my guardian angel! tell, What thus infatuates? what enchantment plants The phantom of an age 'twixt us, and Death Already at the door? He knocks, we hear, And yet we will not hear. What mail defends 620 Our untouch'd hearts? what miracle turns off The pointed thought, which from a thousand quivers Is daily darted, and is daily shunn'd? We stand, as in a battle, throngs on throngs Around us falling; wounded oft ourselves; Though bleeding with our wounds, immortal still! We see Time's furrows on another's brow, And Death intrench'd, preparing his assault; 628 How few themselves, in that just mirror, see, Or, seeing, draw their inference as strong! There, death is certain; doubtful here: he must, And soon; we may, within an age, expire. Though grey our heads, our thoughts and aims are green; Like damaged clocks, whose hand and bell dissent; Folly sings six, while Nature points at twelve. Absurd longevity! More, more! it cries: More life, more wealth, more trash of every kind. And wherefore mad for more, when relish fails? Object, and appetite, must club for joy; Shall Folly labour hard to mend the bow, 640 Baubles, I mean, that strike us from without, While Nature is relaxing every string? Ask thought for joy; grow rich, and hoard within. Think you the soul, when this life's rattles cease, Has nothing of more manly to succeed? Contract the taste immortal; learn even now To relish what alone subsists hereafter. Divine, or none, henceforth your joys for ever. Of age the glory is, to wish to die. That wish is praise, and promise; it applauds 650 Past life, and promises our future bliss. What weakness see not children in their sires? Grand-climacterical absurdities! Grey-hair'd authority, to faults of youth, How shocking! it makes folly thrice a fool; And our first childhood might our last despise. Peace and esteem is all that age can hope. Nothing but wisdom gives the first; the last, Nothing, but the repute of being wise. Folly bars both; our age is quite undone.