Art indeed is long, but life is short.

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.

So much one man can do that does both act and know.

Music, the mosaic of the air.

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.

Art indeed is long, but life is short.

No white nor red was ever seen So am'rous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name. Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! where s'e'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found.