Chandos

Considerate age, my Lord, views motives, And not acts; when neither warbling voice Nor trilling pipe is heard, nor pleasure sits With trembling age, the voice of Conscience then, Sweeter than music in a summer’s eve, Shall warble round the snowy head, and keep Sweet symphony to feathered angels, sitting As guardians round your chair; then shall the pulse Beat slow, and taste and touch, and sight, and sound, and smell, That sing and dance round Reason’s fine-wrought throne, Shall flee away, and leave them all forlorn; Yet not forlorn if Conscience is his friend. [Exeunt