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.

As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.

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

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

So much one man can do that does both act and know.

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

But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.