Old Age by Anaxandrides

Ye gods! how easily the good man bears
His cumbrous honours of increasing years.
Age, Oh my father, is not, as they say,
A load of evils heap’d on mortal clay,
Unless impatient folly aids the curse
And weak lamenting makes our sorrows worse.
He whose soft soul, whose temper ever even,
Whose habits placid as a cloudless heaven,
Approve the partial blessings of the sky,
Smooths the rough road and walks untroubled by;
Untimely wrinkles furrow not his brow,
And graceful wave his locks of reverend snow.

From: Peter, William (ed.), Specimens of the Poets and Poetry of Greece and Rome, by Various Translators, 1847, Carey and Hart: Philadelphia, p. 197.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=vqdDAAAAIAAJ)

Date: 4th century BCE (original in Greece); 1807 (translation in English)

By: Anaxandrides (4th century BCE)

Translated by: John Herman Merivale (1779-1844)

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