How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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.
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.
As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.