Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow,
And fat, like over-riped Figs--we know
The Sign--the Riggs' Disease is ours, and we
Must list this Sorrow, add another Woe;
Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough,
And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and off
Our fever'd Foreheads drips an icy Sweat
--We scoffered before, but now we may not scoff.
Some for the Bunions that afflict us prate
Of Plasters unsurpassable, and hate
To Cut a corn--ah cut, and let the Plaster go,
Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.
Some for the Honours of Old Age, and some
Long for its Respite from the Hum
And Clash of sordid Strife--O Fools,
The Past should teach them what's to Come:
Lo, for the Honours, cold Neglect instead!
For Respite, disputatious Heirs a Bed
Of Thorns for them will furnish. Go,
Seek not Here for Peace--but Yonder--with the Dead.
For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign,
And even smitten thus, will not repine,
Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may,
The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.
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