Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.
Though I carry always some ill-nature about me, yet it is, I hope, no more than is in this world necessary for a preservative.
Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness Lady were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges'side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the flood.