Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
Now let us sport us while we may; And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.
Art indeed is long, but life is short.
My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.