My love is of a birth as rare
As 'tis, for object, strange and high;
It was begotten by Despair
Upon Impossibility.

My vegetable love will grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.

Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honor turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.