Time goes, you say? Ah, no! Alas, Time stays, we go. - Austin Dobson

All the seasons run their race
In this quiet resting place;
Peach, and apricot, and fig
Here will ripen, and grow big;
Here is store and overplus,—
More had not Alcinoüs!

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;
It trembles to a lily,—
It wavers to a rose.

In merest prudence men should teach […]
That science ranks as monstrous things
Two pairs of upper limbs; so wings—
E'en angels' wings!—are fictions.