Their age stands more exposed to accidents
Than ours, nor common care their fate prevents: 
Death’s force (with terror) against Nature strives, 709
Nor one of many to ripe age arrives. 
From this ill fate the world’s disorders rise,
For if all men were old, they would be wise;
Years and experience our forefathers taught,
Them under laws and into cities brought: 
Why only should the fear of death belong
To age, which is as common to the young? 
Your hopeful brothers, and my son, to you
(Scipio) and me, this maxim makes too true: 
But vig’rous youth may his gay thoughts erect
To many years, which age must not expect. 720
But when he sees his airy hopes deceived,
With grief he says, Who this would have believed? 
We happier are than they, who but desired
To possess that which we long since acquired. 
What if our age to Nestor’s could extend? 
’Tis vain to think that lasting which must end;
And when ’tis past, not any part remains
Thereof, but the reward which virtue gains. 
Days, months, and years, like running waters flow,
Nor what is past, nor what’s to come, we know:  730
Our date, how short soe’er, must us content. 
When a good actor doth his part present,
In every act he our attention draws,
That at the last he may find just applause;
So (though but short) yet we must learn the art
Of virtue, on the stage to act our part;
True wisdom must our actions so direct,
Not only the last plaudit to expect;
Yet grieve no more, though long that part should last,
Than husbandmen, because the spring is past. 740
The spring, like youth, fresh blossoms doth produce,
But autumn makes them ripe and fit for use: 
So age a mature mellowness doth set
On the green promises of youthful heat. 
All things which Nature did ordain, are good,
And so must be received and understood. 
Age, like ripe apples, on earth’s bosom drops,
While force our youth, like fruits untimely, crops;
The sparkling flame of our warm blood expires,
As when huge streams are pour’d on raging fires; 750
But age unforced falls by her own consent,
As coals to ashes, when the spirit’s spent;
Therefore to death I with such joy resort,
As seamen from a tempest to their port. 
Yet to that port ourselves we must not force,
Before our pilot, Nature, steers our course. 
Let us the causes of our fear condemn,
Then Death at his approach we shall contemn. 
Though to our heat of youth our age seems cold,
Yet when resolved, it is more brave and bold. 760
Thus Solon to Pisistratus replied,
Demanded, on what succour he relied,
When with so few he boldly did engage? 
He said, he took his courage from his age. 
Then death seems welcome, and our nature kind,