Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
Art indeed is long, but life is short.
But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.
He nothing common did, or mean, / Upon that memorable scene, / But with his keener eye / The axe's edge did try.
Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.