The plenteous evils of frail life fill the old:
Their wasted limbs the loose skin in dry folds
Doth hang about: their joints are numb'd, and through
Their veins, not blood, but rheums and waters flow.
Their trembling bodies with a staff they stay,
Nor do they breathe, but sadly sigh all day.
Thoughts tire their hearts, to them their very mind
Is a disease; their eyes no sleep can find.