Annihilating All That's Made, To

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

Like The Vain Curlings Of The Watery Maze, Which In Smooth Streams A Sinking Weight Does Raise, So Man, Declining Always, Disappears In The Weak Circles Of Increasing Years; And His Short Tumults Of Themselves Compose, While Flowing Time Above His Head Does Close.

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

This Indigested Vomit Of The Sea,fell To The Dutch By Just Propriety.

How Vainly Men Themselves Amaze To Win The Palm, The Oak, Or Bays; And Their Uncessant Labours See Crown'd From Some Single Herb Or Tree. Whose Short And Narrow Verged Shade Does Prudently Their Toils Upbraid; While All Flow'rs And All Trees Do Close To Weave The Garlands Of Repose.