An old man is the declaration of time in the defect of Nature, and the
imperfection of sense in the use of reason. He is in the observation of
Time, a calendar of experience; but in the power of action, he is a
blank among lots. He is the subject of weakness, the agent of sickness,
the displeasure of life, and the forerunner of death. He is twice a
child and half a man, a living picture, and a dying creature. He is a
blown bladder that is only stuffed with wind, and a withered tree that
hath lost the sap of the root, or an old lute with strings all broken,
or a ruined castle that is ready to fall. He is the eyesore of youth and
the jest of love, and in the fulness of infirmity the mirror of misery.
Yet in the honour of wisdom he may be gracious in gravity, and in the
government of justice deserve the honour of reverence. Yea, his word may
be notes for the use of reason, and his actions examples for the
imitation of discretion. In sum, in whatsoever estate he is but as the
snuff of a candle, that pink it ever so long it will out at last.