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

Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.

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

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

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.

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

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