Ye Country Comets, That Portend No War,

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

What Wondrous Life Is This I Lead! Ripe Apples Drop About My Head; The Luscious Clusters Of The Vine Upon My Mouth Do Crush Their Wine; The Nectarine And Curious Peach Into My Hands Themselves Do Reach; Stumbling On Melons, As I Pass, Ensnared With Flowers, I Fall On Grass.

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

Art Indeed Is Long, But Life Is Short.

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