Art indeed is long, but life is short.
He nothing common did, or mean, / Upon that memorable scene, / But with his keener eye / The axe's edge did try.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
Ye country comets, that portend No war, nor prince's funeral, Shining unto no higher end Than to presage the grasses fall. . . .
My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.