Gather The Flowers, But Spare The Buds.

But Fate Does Iron Wedges Drive, And Always Crowds Itself Betwixt.

Let Us Roll All Our Strength, And All Our Sweetness, Up Into One Ball: And Tear Our Pleasures With Rough Strife, Through The Iron Gates Of Life. Thus, Though We Cannot Make Our Sun Stand Still, Yet We Will Make Him Run.

How Fit He Is To Sway That Can So Well Obey.

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

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