Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.
So much one man can do that does both act and know.
Ye country comets, that portend No war, nor prince's funeral, Shining unto no higher end Than to presage the grasses fall. . . .
And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?