Thus, Though We Cannot Make Our Sun

Music, The Mosaic Of The Air.

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

Though I Carry Always Some Ill-nature About Me, Yet It Is, I Hope, No More Than Is In This World Necessary For A Preservative.

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

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.