Thus, Though We Cannot Make Our Sun

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

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

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

Art Indeed Is Long, But Life Is Short.

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