Have
I deserv'd from you, when rais'd within sight of heavens of joys, to
be struck down to the lowest hell? To have a scandal fixt on the very
prime and vigour of my years, and to be reduc'd to the weakness of an
old man? I beseech you, sir, give me an epitaph on my departed
vigour; tho' in a great heat I had thus said,
He still continu'd looking on the ground,
Nor more, at this had rais'd his guilty head,
Than th' drooping poppy on its tender stalk.
Nor when I had done, did I less repent of my ridiculous passion, and
with a conscious blush, began to think, how unaccountable it was, that
forgetting all shame, I shou'd contend with that part of me, that all
men of sence, reckon not worth their thoughts. A little after,
relapsing to my former humour: But what's the crime, began I, if by a
natural complaint I was eas'd of my grief? or how is it, that we blame
our stomachs or bellies, when 'tis our heads that are distemper'd?
Did not Ulysses beat his breast, as if that had disturb'd him? And
don't we see the actors punish their eyes, as if they heard the
tragick scene? Those that have the gout in their legs, swear at them;
Those that have it in their fingers, do so by them: Those that have
sore eyes, are angry with their eyes.
Why do the strickt-liv'd Cato's of the age,
At my familiar lines so gravely rage?
In measures loosly plain, blunt satyr flows,
And all the people so sincerely shows.
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