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Poem	Be not proud, but now incline Your soft ear to discipline; You have changes in your life, Sometimes peace, and sometimes strife; You have ebbs of face and flows, As your health or comes or goes; You have hopes, and doubts, and fears, Numberless as are your hairs; You have pulses that do beat High, and passions less of heat; You are young, but must be old:-- And, to these, ye must be told, Time, ere long, will come and plow Loathed furrows in your brow: And the dimness of your eye Will no other thing imply, But you must die As well as I.
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