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

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

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

Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.

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.

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

Music, the mosaic of the air.