We leave ye behind us, sweet things of the earth."
V.
"The sound of Time's pinion, as fast he doth fly,
Is echoed from each mortal breast by a sigh;
What if there be fruits? they ungather'd must grow,
For fate is behind us, and on we must go!
We leave ye behind us, sweet things of the earth."
VI.
"We leave ye behind us, sweet things of the earth.
Hopes, joys, and endearments, sport, pleasure, and mirth,