Music, The Mosaic Of The Air.

And All The Way, To Guide Their Chime, With Falling Oars They Kept Their Time.

No White Nor Red Was Ever Seen So Am'rous As This Lovely Green. Fond Lovers, Cruel As Their Flame, Cut In These Trees Their Mistress' Name. Little, Alas, They Know Or Heed How Far These Beauties Hers Exceed! Fair Trees! Where S'e'er Your Barks I Wound, No Name Shall But Your Own Be Found.

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

Had We But World Enough, And Time, This Coyness, Lady, Were No Crime.

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