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.

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.

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

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.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires 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. Let us roll our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life: Thus, while 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.