Classic Poem

If I live to grow old, for I find I go down,
Let this be my fate: in a country town,
May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate,
And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate.
May I govern my passion with an absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better as my strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

Near a shady grove, and a murmuring brook,
With the ocean at distance, whereon I may look,
With a spacious plain without hedge or stile,
And an easy pad-nag to ride out a mile.
May I govern, etc.

With Plutarch and Horace, and one or two more
Of the best wits that lived in the ages before;
With a dish of roast mutton, not ven'son or teal,
And clean, though coarse linen, at every meal.
May I govern, etc.

With a pudding on Sunday, with stout humming liquor,
And remnants of Latin to puzzle the Vicar;
With a hidden reserve of Burgundy wine,
To drink the king's health as oft as I dine
May I govern, etc.

I hope I shall have no occasion to send
For priests or physicians, till I'm so near my end,
That I have eat all my bread and drank my last glass,
Let them come then and set their seals to my pass
May I govern, etc.

With courage undaunted may I face my last day,
And when I am dead may the better sort say, —
In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow,
He's gone, and has left not behind him his fellow;
For be governed his passion with an absolute sway,
And grew wiser and better as his strength wore away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.