Till like a clock worn out with eating time,
The wheels of weary life at last stood still.
Œdipus. Act iv. Sc. 1.
She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty,
Grows cold even in the summer of her age.
Œdipus. Act iv. Sc. 1.
[[277]]
There is a pleasure sure
In being mad which none but madmen know.[277:1]
The Spanish Friar. Act ii. Sc. 1.