How Fit He Is To Sway That

Art Indeed Is Long, But Life Is Short.

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.

My Love Is Of A Birth As Rare As 'tis, For Object, Strange And High; It Was Begotten By Despair Upon Impossibility.

Casting The Body's Vest Aside, My Soul Into The Boughs Does Glide.

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