On a Diseased Old Man, who Wept at thought of leaving the World. Nahum Tate Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Tate, Nahum, c. 1652-1715. Poems by N. Tate. London Printed by T.M. for Benj. Tooke ... 1677 pp. 4-7. [15],133p.

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On a Diseased Old Man , who Wept at thought of leaving the World . I. Shame on thy Beard ! That thou canst Bug-bears dread ! Fear Death whom thou so oft hast seen , So oft his Guest at Funerals been ; Thy self ' ith' Better Half already Dead ! 'Tis strange to see that Frozen Head Such Plenteous Moysture shed ; Whence can this Stream be fed ? The Tears were just , which at thy Birth did flow , For then Alass ! thou had'st t'engage Life's Inconveniences , but now Thou art allow'd to quit the Tragick Stage , Now to be careful to prolong the Scene , And Act thy Miseries o're agen , Is Folly not to be forgiv'n in ev'n thy Doating Age . II . Full Fourscore Years ( Bless us ! a dreadful Space ) The World has us'd Thee ill , Abus'd Thee to Thy Face ; And Doatard canst Thou still Sollicite her Embrace ? In vain Thou covet'st to enjoy This haughty Dame , when Age and Pains Have shrunk thy Nerves , and chill'd thy Veins , Who to thy Flourishing Years , was so Reserv'd and Coy . III . Can Cramps , Catharrs , and Palsies be Such ravishing Company , That thou shou'd'st mourn the Loss of their Society ? What Pleasures can the Grave deprive Thy Senses of ? What Inconvenience give , Which Thou'rt exempted from Alive ? At worst thou canst but have Cold Lodging in the Grave ; Nor ly'st thou Warmer now tho cover'd o're In Furr , till thy faint Limbs can bear no more : Thou sleep'st each Night in so much Sear-cloth bound , Thou'dst need no more wert thou to take thy Lodging Under-ground . IV . Go ; lay thy friv'lous Hopes of Health aside ; No longer Potions take , No more Incisions make , Let thy dull Flesh no more be Scarify'd : Resign , resign thy Fated Breath , Consult with no Physitian more , but Death : When all thy Surgeons Instruments prove vain , His never-failing Dart Will Bleed thee gently at thy Heart , And let out Life , the Sourse of all thy Pain : Let then thy Funeral Pile be made , With Rosemary and Cypress grac't , Aloft on it thy Carcass plac't ; Beside thee there thy Crutches laid : Those Utensills will thus oblige thee more , Fomenting the kind Flame , then when they bore Thy Crazy and Decrepit Limbs before !