How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
Ye country comets, that portend No war, nor prince's funeral, Shining unto no higher end Than to presage the grasses fall. . . .
I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness.