Here the sage approached and saluted them.  They invited him to join their walk, and prattled awhile, as acquaintance that had unexpectedly met one another.  The old man was cheerful and talkative, and the way seemed short in his company.  He was pleased to find himself not disregarded, accompanied them to their house, and, at the prince’s request, entered with them.  They placed him in the seat of honour, and set wine and conserves before him.  “Sir,” said the princess, “an evening walk must give, to a man of learning, like you, pleasures which ignorance and youth can hardly conceive.  You know the qualities and the causes of all that you behold, the laws by which the river flows, the periods in which the planets perform their revolutions.  Every thing must supply you with contemplation, and renew the consciousness of your own dignity.”

“Lady,” answered he, “let the gay and the vigorous expect pleasure in their excursions; it is enough that age can obtain ease.  To me, the world has lost its novelty:  I look round, and see what I remember to have seen in happier days.  I rest against a tree, and consider, that in the same shade I once disputed upon the annual overflow of the Nile, with a friend who is now silent in the grave.  I cast my eyes upwards, fix them on the changing moon, and think, with pain, on the vicissitudes of life.  I have ceased to take much delight in physical truth; for what have I to do with those things which I am soon to leave?”

“You may, at least, recreate yourself,” said Imlac, “with the recollection of an honourable and useful life, and enjoy the praise which all agree to give you.”

“Praise,” said the sage, with a sigh, “is, to an old man, an empty sound.  I have neither mother to be delighted with the reputation of her son, nor wife to partake the honours of her husband.  I have outlived my friends and my rivals.  Nothing is now of much importance; for I cannot extend my interest beyond myself.  Youth is delighted with applause, because it is considered, as the earnest of some future good, and because the prospect of life is far extended; but to me, who am now declining to decrepitude, there is little to be feared from the malevolence of men, and yet less to be hoped from their affection or esteem.  Something they may yet take away, but they can give me nothing.  Riches would now be useless, and high employment would be pain.  My retrospect of life recalls to my view many opportunities of good neglected, much time squandered upon trifles, and more lost in idleness and vacancy.  I leave many great designs unattempted, and many great attempts unfinished.  My mind is burdened with no heavy crime, and, therefore, I compose myself to tranquillity; endeavour to abstract my thoughts from hopes and cares, which, though reason knows them to be vain, still try to keep their old possession of the heart; expect, with serene humility, that hour which nature cannot long delay; and hope to possess, in a better state, that happiness, which here I could not find, and that virtue, which here I have not attained.”