Years steal Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

-Rochdale
^18  Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, canto 3, stanza 8.

   The speaker, and the schoolmaster, and the third grown person present, all backed a little, and swept with their eyes the inclined plane of little vessels then and there 270 arranged in order, ready to have imperial gallons of facts poured into them until they were full to the brim.

-Dickens, CharlesJohn Huffam
  Hard Times, bk.1, ch.1.