The third day comes a frost—a killing frost;
And—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening—nips his root
And then he falls as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth; my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream that must forever hide me.”