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

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

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.

But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.

Ye country comets, that portend No war, nor prince's funeral, Shining unto no higher end Than to presage the grasses fall. . . .

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.

Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns