Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.
So much one man can do that does both act and know.
Art indeed is long, but life is short.
My love is of a birth as rare As ’tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.
Now let us sport us while we may; And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
My mind was once the true survey Of all these meadows fresh and gay; And in the greenness of the grass Did see its hopes as in a glass.
See how the Orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, Yet careless of its mansion new; For the clear region where ’twas born Round in its self encloses: And in its little globes extent, Frames as it can its native element.
What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
Though I carry always some ill-nature about me, yet it is, I hope, no more than is in this world necessary for a preservative.
Music, the mosaic of the air.
How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
Let us roll all our strength, and all Our sweetness, up into one ball: And tear our pleasures with rough strife, Through the iron gates of life. Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.
Casting the body’s vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
Annihilating all that’s made, To a green thought in a green shade.
And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.
The world in all doth but two nations bear- The good, the bad; and these mixed everywhere.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
Twas beyond a mortal’s share To wander solitary there: Two paradises ’twere in one To live in paradise alone.