All the seasons run their race

And round about its gray, time-eaten brow Lean letters speak—a worn and shattered row: I am a Shade: a Shadowe too arte thou: I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe?

Fame is a food that dead men eat,— I have no stomach for such meat.

Love comes unseen,—we only see it go.

Carry his body hence,— Kings must have slaves; Kings climb to eminence Over men's graves: So this man's eye is dim;— Throw the earth over him.

Old books, old wine, old Nankin blue;— All things, in short, to which belong The charm, the grace that Time makes strong,— All these I prize, but (entre nous) Old friends are best.

The ladies of St. James’s! They’re painted to the eyes; Their white it stays forever Their red it never dies: But Phillida, my Phillida! Her colour comes and goes;