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.
And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.
And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
So much one man can do that does both act and know.
My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.