(When I was yong and wylde as now thou art):
But her good counsell I regarded not;
I markt it with my eares, not with my hart:
But now I finde it too—too true (my Sonne),
When my Age-withered Spring is almost done.
Behold my gray head, full of siluer haires,
My wrinckled skin, deepe furrowes in my face:
Cares bring Old-Age, Old-Age increaseth cares;
My Time is come, and I haue run my Race:
Winter hath snow'd vpon my hoarie head,