The grave's a fine and private place,But none, I think, do there embrace.

But at my back I always hear Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust; The grave’s a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.

But at my back I always hear Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near

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.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, 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.Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Had we but world enough, and time

Thus, though we cannot make our sunStand still, yet we will make him run.

Had we but world enough, and time...

Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpiresAt every pore with instant fires, 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-chapt power.

My vegetable love will growVaster than empires, and more slow.

To wander solitary there:Two paradises ‘twere in oneTo live in paradise alone.

But Fate does iron wedges drive,And always crowds itself betwixt.

As lines, so loves oblique may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet. Therefore the love which us doth bind, But Fate so enviously debars, Is the conjunction of the mind, And opposition of the stars.

My love is of a birth as rareAs 'tis, for object, strange and high;It was begotten by DespairUpon Impossibility.

He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene.