Classic Poem

De sene Veronense —

Of an owld man of —

Happy is He who on his own fields stage
(And noe wher else) hath acted ore his Age
He Whom his own house (had it eyes and tongue
Might say it sees him Owld, and saw him yonge
Now trusting to his staff He treads those sands
He formerly had crept on with his hands
Soe reckons up the long descent and (dotage
Thorough decays) of that his lonely Cottage.
He ne're was drawn with fortunes Train to hast
Nor did he flatter forraign springes with tast
He was noe Merchant that might fear the straits
Nor soldad fancying Military Baytes
He never Pleaded: that the Court seemd horse
'Twas not His fault: Who knew nor strife nor force:
But as uncapable of Busnes: Free:
Cannot declare what the next Town should be
Yet doth enjoy a prospect (may controwle
All others) of the Freer Ayre and Pole
Nor casts He up the year by Consulls nowe
But as the Frute-Trees to their Seasons bowe
By Apples Autumn, Spring, by flowers befalls him
One field hides Phebus face, the same recalls him
And thus this Cuntry-swaynes observing way
Measures within his Orbe the Course of day.
He did remember Yon Great Oake when't stood
But for a sappling: soe's grown owld with's wood
And Judging that same Ile (with less witt's blest
More Barbarisme) to be th'Indies east
He doth conclude the Red-Sea to be neer
Behoulding Standground-Farcet and the meer
And yet through strength unconquered he may guather
Comfort the third Age sees him Grandfather
Let Others wander to the fard'st of Spaine
The way is only Theirs; but Life his guaine.