To Doctor Bale

Good aged Bale, that with thy hoary hairs
Dost yet persist to turn the painful book,
O happy man, that hast obtained such years,
And leav'st not yet on papers pale to look,
Give over now to beat thy wearied brain,
And rest thy pen that hath long labored sore;
For aged men unfit sure is such pain,
And thou beseems to labor now no more.
But thou, I think, Don Plato's part will play,
With book in hand to have thy dying day.