Gather The Flowers, But Spare The Buds.

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.

I Have A Garden Of My Own, But So With Roses Overgrown, And Lilies, That You Would It Guess To Be A Little Wilderness.

Self-preservation, Nature's First Great Law, All The Creatures, Except Man, Doth Awe.

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

But At My Back I Always Hear Time's Winged Chariot Hurrying Near.