Classic Poem

P HILLIS , you boast of perfect health in vain,
And laugh at those who of their ills complain:
That with a frequent fever Chloe burns,
And Stella's plumpness into dropsy turns!
O Phillis, while the patients are nineteen,
Little, alas! are their distempers seen.
But thou, for all thy seeming health, art ill,
Beyond thy lover's hopes, or Blackmore's skill;
No lenitives can thy disease assuage,
I tell thee, 'tis incurable—'tis age.