But Fate Does Iron Wedges Drive, And

Thus, Though We Cannot Make Our Sun Stand Still, Yet We Will Make Him Run

Music, The Mosaic Of The Air.

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.

The Grave's A Fine And Private Place, But None, I Think, Do There Embrace.

Gather The Flowers, But Spare The Buds.