[ 15 ]
There it abides till younger buds come on,
As I, now all my fellow swains are gone;
Then, from the riling generation thrust,
It falls, like me, unnotic'd to the dust.
These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see,
Are others' gain, but killing cares to me;
To me the children of my youth are lords,
Slow in their gifts but hasty in their words;
Wants of their own demand their care, and who
Feels his own want and succours others too?
A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go,
None need my help and none relieve my woe;
Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid,
And men forget the wretch they would not aid"
Thus groan the old, till by disease opprest,
They taste a final woe, and then they rest.
Their's
