The stones and trees, insensible to time, / Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen; / If Winter come, and greenness then do fade / A Spring returns, and they more youthful made; / But man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's laid.
I happy am, if well with you.
But man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's laid.
Some laborers have hard hands, and old sinners have brawny consciences.
My age I will not once lament, / But sing, my time so near is spent.
The world no longer lets me love, My hope and treasure are above.