Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
Music, the mosaic of the air.
What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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.