22 COMFORT FOR CENTENARIANS

Marvel not if my words are bold; Though the sound be rude, yet the sense is true: Too long you have flouted a tale oft-told By the stammering tongues of men that woo, And woo you vainly. Your brain is askew For pride in your body’s magnificence, And its color and curving so fair to view;— And what will it matter a hundred years hence? My burden, I grant you, is blunt and old: Yet time will sharpen its sting when you— Even you yourself!—and the things you hold At so dear a price are a bone or two; And those wonderful eyes, whose heaven-like blue Is the crown of your beauty’s excellence, Are unsavory holes that a worm crawls through;— And what will it matter a hundred years hence? Encrusted and tainted with churchyard mould, Your dear perfections must lie perdue; Take on such favor as few behold With liking, and certainly none pursue; And your beauty be reft of all revenue, And suffer the blind worm’s insolence, Who recks not at all of height, hair and hue,— And what will it matter a hundred years hence? Ettarre, I proffer my love anew, And life with a jest at the world’s expense; And if for your favor I vainly sue— Why, what will it matter a hundred years hence?