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

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.

If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.

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.

Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.

The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.

Gods, that never change their state, vary oft their love and hate.