Art Indeed Is Long, But Life Is

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.

As Lines, So Loves Oblique, May Well Themselves In Every Angle Greet; But Ours, So Truly Parallel, Though Infinite, Can Never Meet.

But At My Back I Always Hear Time's Winged Chariot Hurrying Near.

And All The Way, To Guide Their Chime, With Falling Oars They Kept Their Time.

Therefore The Love Which Us Doth Bind, But Fate So Enviously Debars, Is The Conjunction Of The Mind, And Opposition Of The Stars.