Had we but world enough, and time . . .

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near; . . .

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like the morning due,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore wth instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amourous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

--Lines 1, 22-23, and the last stanza of To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell (1621-78)