Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth

The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,

And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,

And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely

His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,

This many summers in a sea of glory,

But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride

At length broke under me and now has left me,

Weary and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:

I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched

Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!

There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,

More pangs and fears than wars or women have:

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry VIII. Act iii. Sc. 2.

Chaste as the icicle

That's curdied by the frost from purest snow

And hangs on Dian's temple.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Coriolanus. Act v. Sc. 3.

But, oh! fell death's untimely frost

That nipt my flower sae early.

Robert Burns (1759-1796): Highland Mary.

In lazy apathy let stoics boast

Their virtue fix'd: 't is fix'd as in a frost;

Contracted all, retiring to the breast;

But strength of mind is exercise, not rest.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Essay on Man. Epistle ii. Line 101.

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834): Hymn in the Vale of Chamouni.

O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellions hell,

If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones,

To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,

And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame

When the compulsive ardour gives the charge,

Since frost itself as actively doth burn,

And reason panders will.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Hamlet. Act iii. Sc. 4.