“ ‘Last, winter creeps along with tardy pace; Sour is his front, and furrow’d is his face: His scalp, if not dishonour’d quite of hair, The ragged fleece is thin; and thin is worse than bare.

“ ‘Ev’n our own bodies daily change receive, Some part of what was theirs before, they leave; Nor are to-day what yesterday they were; Nor the whole same to-morrow will appear.