Advice to an Old Man of Sixty-three, About to Marry a Girl of Sixteen

Now fie upon him! what is Man,
Whose life at best is but a span?
When to an inch it dwindles down,
Ice in his bones, snow on his crown,
That he within his crazy brain
Kind thoughts of Love should entertain,
That he, when harvest comes, should plow,
And when 'tis time to reap, go sow,
Who, in imagination only strong,
Though twice a child, can never twice grow young.

Nature did those design for fools,
That sue for work, yet have no tools.
What fellow-feeling can there be
In such a strange disparity?
Old age mistakes the youthful breast,
Love dwells not there, but Interest:
Alas, good man! take thy repose,
Get ribband for thy thumbs and toes.
Provide thee flannel, and a sheet of lead,--
Think on thy Coffin, not thy Bridal Bed.