Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.

Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.

But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.

Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.

Go, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

The fear of Hell, or aiming to be blest, Savors too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends abandoned soul and all.

All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.