Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run

Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires 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. Let us roll our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life: Thus, while we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.

Art indeed is long, but life is short.

He nothing common did, or mean, / Upon that memorable scene, / But with his keener eye / The axe's edge did try.

Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.

My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.