Long years of comfort we may clearly crave;
At twenty years it's surely wrong to brave
Both death and famine in a gloomy tomb
There's time enough to think of such a doom.
At best, too soon we die; do let us wait;
Here's nothing now at least to haste our fate.
In truth, I wish to see a good old age:
To bury charms like your's, would that be sage?
Of what advantage, I should wish to know,
To carry beauty to the shades below?