Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
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.
I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness.
Art indeed is long, but life is short.
As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.