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.