If To Do Were As Easy As

Time Is Like A Fashionable Host That Slightly Shakes His Parting Guest By The Hand, And With His Arm Outstretch'd, As He Would Fly, Grasps In The Comer.

The Bird That Hath Been Limed In A Bush, With Trembling Wings Misdoubteth Every Bush.

To Me, Fair Friend, You Never Can Be Old, For As You Were When First Your Eye I Eyed, Such Seems Your Beauty Still. Three Winters Cold Have From The Forests Shook Three Summers' Pride, Three Beauteous Springs To Yellow Autumn Turn'd In Process Of The Seasons Have I Seen, Three April Perfumes In Three Hot Junes Burn'd, Since First I Saw You Fresh, Which Yet Are Green.

Come My Spade. There Is No Ancient Gentlemen But Gardeners, Ditchers, And Grave-makers; They Hold Up Adam's Profession.

Art Thou Not, Fatal Vision, Sensible To Feelings As To Sight?