Annihilating All That's Made, To A Green

Had We But World Enough, And Time, This Coyness, Lady, Were No Crime.

But At My Back I Always Hear Time's Winged Chariot Hurrying Near; And Yonder All Before Us Lie Deserts Of Vast Eternity. Thy Beauty Shall No More Be Found, Nor, In Thy Marble Vault, Shall Sound My Echoing Song; Then Worms Shall Try That Long Preserv'd Virginity, And Your Quaint Honour Turn To Dust, And Into Ashes All My Lust. The Grave's A Fine And Private Place, But None I Think Do There Embrace.

Art Indeed Is Long, But Life Is Short.

What Wondrous Life Is This I Lead! Ripe Apples Drop About My Head.

My Vegetable Love Should Grow Vaster Than Empires, And More Slow.