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

The world in all doth but two nations bear —
The good, the bad; and these mixed everywhere.

Now therefore while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped power.

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade.