And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe,

And then from hour to hour we rot and rot;

And thereby hangs a tale.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): As You Like It. Act ii. Sc. 7.

Fix'd like a plant on his peculiar spot,

To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Essay on Man. Epistle ii. Line 63.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;

To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;

This sensible warm motion to become

A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit

To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside

In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;

To be imprison'd in the viewless winds,

And blown with restless violence round about

The pendent world.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Measure for Measure. Act iii. Sc. 1.