Ah, Love! could you and I with Him conspire

Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say; Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?

The King in a carriage may ride, And the Beggar may crawl at his side; But in the general race, They are traveling all the same pace.

Whether we wake or we sleep, Whether we carol or weep, The Sun with his Planets in chime, Marketh the going of Time.

I am all for the short and merry life.

If you can prove to me that one miracle took place, I will believe that he is a just God who damned us all because a woman ate an apple

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse — and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness — And Wilderness is Paradise enow.