But At My Back I Always Hear

How Fit He Is To Sway That Can So Well Obey.

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

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.

How Could Such Sweet And Wholesome Hours Be Reckoned, But In Herbs And Flowers?

Art Indeed Is Long, But Life Is Short.