He is translation’s thief that addeth more

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

Art indeed is long, but life is short.

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.

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

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