Classic Poem

VI

The satisfaction flowing thence,
 All dolours would assuage,
And be sufficient recompence
 For all the ills of Age:

VII

But very few (my Friend) I fear,
 Whom this ill Age has bred,
At need have such a Comforter
 To make their dying Bed.

VIII

'Tis then high time we should prepare
 In a new World to live,
Since here we breath but panting air,
 Alas! by short reprieve.

IX

Life then begins to be a pain,
 Infirmity prevails,
Which, when it but begins to reign,
 The bravest Courage quails;

X

But could we, as I said, procure
 To live our lives agen,
We should be of the better sure
 Or the worst sort of men.