Now Let Us Sport Us While We

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

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

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

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

But At My Back I Always Hear Time's Winged Chariot Hurrying Near; And Yonder All Before Us Lie Deserts Of Vast Eternity. Thy Beauty Shall No More Be Found, Nor, In Thy Marble Vault, Shall Sound My Echoing Song; Then Worms Shall Try That Long Preserv'd Virginity, And Your Quaint Honour Turn To Dust, And Into Ashes All My Lust. The Grave's A Fine And Private Place, But None I Think Do There Embrace.