What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold.
Of what I call God, And fools call Nature.
But how carve way i' the life that lies before, If bent on groaning ever for the past?
'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls.
Over my head his arm he flung, Against the world.
God is the perfect poet.