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Had we but world enough and time,
We would sit down, and think which way
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Of Humber would complain. I would
And you should, if you please, refuse
My vegetable love should grow
An hundred years should go to praise
Two hundred to adore each breast,
An age at least to every part,
For, lady, you deserve this state,
But at my back I always hear
And yonder all before us lie
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
My echoing song; then worms shall try
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
The grave’s a fine and private place,
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
And while thy willing soul transpires
Now let us sport us while we may,
Rather at once our time devour
Let us roll all our strength and all
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thus, though we cannot make our sun