In vain our labours are, whatsoe'er they be, unless God gives the Benediction.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun.
Who covets more is evermore a slave.
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a flying: And this same flower that smiles to day, Tomorrow will be dying.
Roses at first were white, Till thy co'd not agree, Whether my Sapho's breast, Or they more white sho'd be.
Some asked me where the rubies grew, And nothing I did say; But with my finger pointed to The lips of Julia.