But at my back I always hear time's winged chariot hurrying near.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Two Paradises t'were in one, to live in Paradise alone.

Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.

The grave's a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace.

Who can foretell for what high cause / This darling of the Gods was born?