Classic Poem

1

Since Women are still,
By pretenders to skill,
Suppos'd to be sway'd by their will,
And not by their judgment nor reason,
Then it shall be mine,
To uphold the design,
In spite of the hits
Of the fellows call'd Wits
That jeere every thing that's in season.

2

Though youthful I be,
And buxome to see,
And suppos'd to be frolick and free,
And ripe for the thing you wot on,
I'le not sacrific'd be
To the Gingerbread he
Whose cloathes are in print
And his hair has butter in't
And his fancies and whimseys has got on.

3

For the Youth in their bud,
That do sail in the flood,
Of their active and flaming blood,
Like furious undertakers,
Are fiery at first,
But have soon done their worst,
Then they shrink their heads in
And care not a pin
For the sport, nor yet the sportmakers.

4

But give me that he
That is threescore and three
And can neither hear, smell or see,
He will serve well enough for a cover;
He will tickle, and touch,
Though his strength be not much,
He can't do, but desire,
And that kindles his fire,
While he fathers the sports of a lover.

5

O the tooth without peers!
And the silver hairs!
And the gouts, and the coughs of old years!
I would have such an one for the nones;
I can Chronicles find,
In his limbs, and his mind,
While his face tells the story
Of memento mori
With an Almanack in his bones.