As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.

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

How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?

As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.

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.

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