Life at best
Is but a jest
A face a glass a fiddle,
A shew a noise
Makes all its joys,
Till worn beyond the middle
Age is worse,
The doatards curse,
Consumed in endless story
In tales of tubs
Intreagues and drubs,
Retold by Grandsires hoary,
Who wou'd then
Converse with men
More then his needs enforce him,
Since tedious fools
Or boys from Schools
Are most that do discourse him.
These to fly
Retired I lye
Unknown and all unknowing,
And think't enough
Not nonsense proof,
My own I am not shewing
(Ms Wellesley, p. 96)