Men are but children of a larger growth, Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain.

Of no distemper, of no blast he died, _x000D_ But fell like autumn fruit that mellow'd long: _x000D_ Even wonder'd at, because he dropp'd no sooner. _x000D_ Fate seem'd to wind him up for fourscore years; _x000D_ Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more; _x000D_ Till like a clock worn out with eating time, _x000D_ The wheels of weary life at last stood still.

Or hast thou known the world so long in vain?

Shame on the body for breaking down while the spirit perseveres.

Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.

And write whatever Time shall bring to pass_x000D_ _x000D_ With pens of adamant on plates of brass.