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.

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

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

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

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

And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.

What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.