The Grave's A Fine And Private Place,

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.

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

How Could Such Sweet And Wholesome Hours Be Reckoned, But In Herbs And Flowers?

Casting The Body's Vest Aside, My Soul Into The Boughs Does Glide.

What Wondrous Life Is This I Lead! Ripe Apples Drop About My Head.