This is old age, but then thou must outlive
Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will change
To withered, weak, and grey.
Milton.
O my coevals! remnants of yourselves!
Poor human ruins, tottering o’er the grave!
Shall we, shall aged men, like aged trees,
Strike deeper their vile root, and closer cling,
Still more enamoured of this wretched soil?
Shall our pale, withered hands be still stretched out,