What gain is there from youth’s proximity
While age endures the waning of the day—
Its once-proud battlements in disarray,
The white flag fluttering for all to see?
And what to us these minxes at their play,
The crafty wit of gallant courtesy,
Or mewling cries within their nursery
To mock this sullen siege of sure decay?
Best to be here, comparing wounds with those
Who share their tales of brittle bones and itch,
Old hurts, old skin, old agonies, old woes
Are more to us than rutting in some ditch.
Old age seeks company to shield its galls:
What might some hussy know of ruptured walls?