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

I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run

How vainly men themselves amaze, / To win the palm, the oak, or bays; / And their incessant labours see / Crowned from some single herb or tree.

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

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.

Music, the mosaic of the air.