Went on three feet and sometime crept on four,
With old lame bones that rattled by his side:
His scalp all piled, and he with eld forelore,
His wither’d fist still knocking at death’s door;
Fumbling and drivelling as he draws his breath;
For brief, the shape and messenger of death.
Sackville.
So mayest thou live till, like ripe fruit, thou drop
Into thy mother’s lap, or be with ease
Gathered, not harshly plucked, for death mature.