What Wondrous Life Is This I Lead!

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

Like The Vain Curlings Of The Watery Maze, Which In Smooth Streams A Sinking Weight Does Raise, So Man, Declining Always, Disappears In The Weak Circles Of Increasing Years; And His Short Tumults Of Themselves Compose, While Flowing Time Above His Head Does Close.

Therefore The Love Which Us Doth Bind, But Fate So Enviously Debars, Is The Conjunction Of The Mind, And Opposition Of The Stars.

Music, The Mosaic Of The Air.

The World In All Doth But Two Nations Bear- The Good, The Bad; And These Mixed Everywhere.