And ever against eating cares

Lap me in soft Lydian airs,

Married to immortal verse,

Such as the meeting soul may pierce,

In notes with many a winding bout

Of linked sweetness long drawn out.

John Milton (1608-1674): L'Allegro. Line 135.

Of no distemper, of no blast he died,

But fell like autumn fruit that mellow'd long,—

Even wonder'd at, because he dropp'd no sooner.

Fate seem'd 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.

John Dryden (1631-1701): oedipus. Act iv. Sc. 1.