If we had but world enough and time
This coyness mistress would be no crime
I would spend a thousand years to adore each breast
And a considerably longer amount for all the rest

But time's winged chariot is ever at our back
And its long skanky finger will go smack, smack, smack

The grave's a fine and private place
But none I think do there embrace
So let us take all our sweetness and wrap it up into one ball
And thus, though we cannot make our sun stand still
Yet we shall make him run!