No more desire flayeth me,
No more for us the trembling
At the meeting of hands.
Lo the fair dead!
ยท
No more desire flayeth me,
No more for us the trembling
At the meeting of hands.
Lo the fair dead!
“To-morrow you will live, you always cry;
In what far country does this morrow lie,
That ’tis so mighty long ere it arrive?
Beyond the Indies does this morrow live?
‘Tis so far fetch’d this morrow, that I fear
‘Twill be both very old and very dear.
To-morrow I will live, the fool does say;
To0-day itself’s too late, the wise liv’d yesterday.”
Abraham Cowley | After the Latin of Martial