Totters to age, on an unstable staff,

Shook by the winds, which his own hopes unfurl’d;

Who tamely would let Age assert his claims,

And stiffen self to a distincter mould,

Who would not rather curse all shapes, thoughts, names,

That frame men’s hearts to forms, as meagre-cold:

He ne’er shall triumph o’er the powers of woe;

Mad Passion bursts his bounds, and thunders, “No.”

{60}

{60}

LX.

The poison well’d from Circe’s treacherous cups

Beyond the shape, with fell designment, work’d;

Had thought not pander’d to nectareous sups,

And, brute-like, veiled what beastly semblance lurk’d,

Sure change had mock’d his aim, by death and spleen.

’Tis bounteous Nature smoothes the wrinkled brow,

Bellying with pride the front that looks too lean:

She plants conceit in gaping brains enow;

She salves with flattery some unequal wounds,

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