Music, The Mosaic Of The Air.

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

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.

He Nothing Common Did, Or Mean, / Upon That Memorable Scene, / But With His Keener Eye / The Axe's Edge Did Try.

Ye Country Comets, That Portend No War, Nor Prince's Funeral, Shining Unto No Higher End Than To Presage The Grasses Fall. . . .

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