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I will tell you, Socrates, he said, what my own feeling is. Men

of my age flock together; we are birds of a feather, as the old

proverb says; and at our meetings the tale of my acquaintance

commonly is-I cannot eat, I cannot drink; the pleasures of youth

and love are fled away: there was a good time once, but now that

is gone, and life is no longer life. Some complain of the slights

which are put upon them by relations, and they will tell you

sadly of how many evils their old age is the cause. But to me,

Socrates, these complainers seem to blame that which is not

really in fault. For if old age were the cause, I too being old,

and every other old man, would have felt as they do. But this is

not my own experience, nor that of others whom I have known. How

well I remember the aged poet Sophocles, when in answer to the

question, How does love suit with age, Sophocles,-are you still

the man you were?