Among The Blind The One-eyed Blinkard Reigns

My Vegetable Love Should Grow Vaster Than Empires, And More Slow.

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.

Gather The Flowers, But Spare The Buds.

Now Therefore, While The Youthful Hue Sits On Thy Skin Like Morning Dew, And While Thy Willing Soul Transpires At Every Pore With Instant Fires Now Let Us Sport Us While We May, And Now, Like Amorous Birds Of Prey, Rather At Once Our Time Devour Than Languish In His Slow-chapped Power. Let Us Roll Our Strength And All Our Sweetness Up Into One Ball And Tear Our Pleasures With Rough Strife Through The Iron Gates Of Life: Thus, While We Cannot Make Our Sun Stand Still, Yet We Will Make Him Run.

So Much One Man Can Do That Does Both Act And Know.