Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.

I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness.

Art indeed is long, but life is short.

But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserv'd virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust. The grave's a fine and private place, But none I think do there embrace.

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

My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.

How vainly men themselves amaze, / To win the palm, the oak, or bays; / And their incessant labours see / Crowned from some single herb or tree.