So Much One Man Can Do That

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

How Vainly Men Themselves Amaze, / To Win The Palm, The Oak, Or Bays; / And Their Incessant Labours See / Crowned From Some Single Herb Or Tree.

No White Nor Red Was Ever Seen So Am'rous As This Lovely Green. Fond Lovers, Cruel As Their Flame, Cut In These Trees Their Mistress' Name. Little, Alas, They Know Or Heed How Far These Beauties Hers Exceed! Fair Trees! Where S'e'er Your Barks I Wound, No Name Shall But Your Own Be Found.

My Mind Was Once The True Survey Of All These Meadows Fresh And Gay; And In The Greenness Of The Grass Did See Its Hopes As In A Glass.

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.