Classic Poem

T HOU talk'st of age; — but thine 's a lusty winter,
For thou didst never thy pure blood inflame
With hot rebellious liquors; kindly therefore
Is Age to thee, and on its playful scroll
The characters of living gold appear.
Apt are thy words, and sweet is thy discourse,
But in fair limits of becoming wit
That never seeks occasion of its mirth,
Nor shuns it when it comes. Ev'n aged ears
Are truant at thy tales, and younger hearings
With a mute wonder seem possess'd: — the hours
Are dancing round thee — and observance due,
That should accompany old age, in troops
Watches thy honey'd sentences; — for honour'd
Are none like thee, or with such 'tendance follow'd: —
Happier as Parents, none. — Can this be Age?
Or, being so, is 't not a comforter?