’Tis Irreverent, and Unnatural, to Scoff at the Infirmities of _Old Age_,
since there’s no Avoiding them, but by Dying Betimes. We are all Born to
Die, and Every jot as Certain that we shall go Out of This World, as that
we are already come into’t; but whether by a Natural, or a Violent Death,
we know not. Time and Humane Frailty will bring us to our End without the
Help of any Contingencies, or Distempers by the By; So that our Decays
are as much the Work of Nature as the First Principles of our Being:
And the _Boy_’s Conceit of the _Crooked Bow_ here, is no better then a
Blasphemous Way of making sport with the Course of Providence: Beside the
Folly of Scoffing at That in Another, which we our selves are sure to
come to at Last, or Worse.