Therefore The Love Which Us Doth Bind,

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

My Love Is Of A Birth As Rare As 'tis, For Object, Strange And High; It Was Begotten By Despair Upon Impossibility.

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

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.

Had We But World Enough, And Time, This Coyness Lady Were No Crime. We Would Sit Down, And Think Which Way To Walk, And Pass Our Long Love's Day. Thou By The Indian Ganges'side Shouldst Rubies Find: I By The Tide Of Humber Would Complain. I Would Love You Ten Years Before The Flood.