The pilgrim

A wearied pilgrim, I have wandered here

Twice five-and-twenty, bate me but one year;

Long I have lasted in this world, 'tis true,

But yet those years that I have lived, but few.

Who by his grey hairs doth his lusters

tell,

Lives not those years, but he that lives them well.

One man has reach'd his sixty years, but he

Of all those threescore, has not liv'd half three.

He lives, who lives to virtue; men who cast

Their ends for pleasure, do not live, but last.