She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty,Grows cold even in the summer of her age. Œdipus (1679)
Of no distemper, of no blast he died,But fell like autumn fruit that mellowed long —Even wondered at, because he dropped no sooner.Fate seemed to wind him up for fourscore years,Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more;Till like a clock worn out with eating time,The wheels of weary life at last stood still. Œdipus (1679)