1
If I live to grow old (for I find I go down),Let this be my fate: in a countery townLet me have a warm house with a stone at the gate,And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate.May I govern my passion with an absolute sway,And grow wiser and better as my strength wears awayWithout gout or stone, by a gentle decay,By a gentle decay.
2
In a countery town by a murmuring brook,The ocean at distance on which I may look,With a spacious plain without hedge or stile,And an easie pag nag to ride out a mile.May I govern my passion with an absolute sway,And grow wiser and better as my strength wears awayWithout gout or stone, by a gentle decay,By a gentle decay.
3
With a pudding on Sunday, and stout humming Liquor,And remnants of Latin to puzzle the vicar,With a hidden reserve of Burgundy wine,To drink the King's health as oft as I dine.May I govern my passion with an absolute sway,And grow wiser and better as my strength wears awayWithout gout or stone, by a gentle decay,By a gentle decay.
4
With Petrarch and Horace, and one or two moreOf the best wits that lived in the ages before;With a dish of roast mutton, not venison nor teal,And clean (though coarse) linen at every meal.May I govern my passion with an absolute sway,And grow wiser and better as my strength wears awayWithout gout or stone, by a gentle decay,By a gentle decay.
5
With a courage undaunted may I pass my last day,And when I am dead, may the better sort say,In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow,He's gone and has left not behind him his fellow:May I govern my passion with an absolute sway,And grow wiser and better as my strength wears awayWithout gout or stone, by a gentle decay,By a gentle decay.
