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

Ye country comets, that portend No war, nor prince's funeral, Shining unto no higher end Than to presage the grasses fall. . . .

Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns

As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.

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.

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.