When, spite of cormorant-devouring time,
The endeavour of his present death may buy
That honour, which shall bate his scythe’s keen edge,
And makes us heirs of all eternity.
Shakspere.
Then straight thro’ all the world ’gan fame to fly;
A monster swifter none is under sun;
Increasing, as in waters we discry
The circles small, of nothing that begun,
Till of the drops, which from the skies do fall,