There was a man was very old:
He sat beside a little fire,
And watched the flame begin to tire.
He held his hands out to the heat,
And in a voice was half a scold,
He told Creation he was cold.

And he was tired and feeble, too : 
He could not lift up from his seat 
To reach the fuel at his feet.
"Perhaps," said he, "God does not know 
That I am nearly frozen through; 
He might not like it if He knew.
 
Poor old chattering, grumbling wight ! 
God will hardly come to fetch
Wood for such an ancient wretch.
But He will send you rain more cold,
To quench that little flickering light,
Like this, and He will freeze you quite:
... Men must die when they are old.