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

Music, the mosaic of the air.

He nothing common did, or mean, / Upon that memorable scene, / But with his keener eye / The axe's edge did try.

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.

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

Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.

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.