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.

Alone!—that worn-out word,

So idly spoken, and so coldly heard;

Yet all that poets sing and grief hath known

Of hopes laid waste, knells in that word Alone!

Edward Bulwer Lytton (1805-1873): The New Timon. (1846.) Part ii.

Nature, they say, doth dote,

And cannot make a man

Save on some worn-out plan,

Repeating us by rote.

James Russell Lowell (1819-1891): Ode at the Harvard Commemoration, July 21, 1865.