Art indeed is long, but life is short

An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart.

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

For though the whole world cannot show such another, Yet we’d better by far have him than his brother.

Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime.

The world in all doth but two nations bear — The good, the bad; and these mixed everywhere.

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,