My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.

How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?

My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.

What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.

And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.

The world in all doth but two nations bear- The good, the bad; and these mixed everywhere.

But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserv'd virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust. The grave's a fine and private place, But none I think do there embrace.