As Lines, So Loves Oblique,

Music, The Mosaic Of The Air.

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.

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.

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.

Therefore The Love Which Us Doth Bind, But Fate So Enviously Debars, Is The Conjunction Of The Mind, And Opposition Of The Stars.