| Had we but world enough, and
time, |
| This coyness, Lady, were no
crime. |
| We would sit down and think which
way |
| To walk and pass our long love's
day. |
| Thou by the Indian Ganges' side |
| Shouldst rubies find: I by the
tide |
| Of Humber would complain. I would |
| Love you ten years before the
Flood, |
| And you should, if you please,
refuse |
| Till the conversion of the Jews. |
| My vegetable love should grow |
| Vaster than empires, and more
slow; |
| An hundred years should go to
praise |
| Thine eyes and on thy forehead
gaze; |
| Two hundred to adore each breast; |
| But thirty thousand to the rest; |
| An age at least to every part, |
| And the last age should show your
heart; |
| For, Lady, you deserve this
state, |
| Nor would I love at lower rate. |
| But at my back I always
hear |
| Time's wingèd chariot hurrying
near; |
| And yonder all before us lie |
| Deserts of vast eternity. |
| Thy beauty shall no more be
found, |
| Nor, in thy marble vault, shall
sound |
| My echoing song: then worms shall
try |
| That long preserved virginity, |
| And your quaint honour turns to
dust, |
| And into ashes all my lust: |
| The grave's a fine and private
place, |
| But none, I think, do there
embrace. |
| 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-chapt
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.
|
|
Andrew
Marvell | Classic Poems |
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[ An Horation Ode ] [ Song of the Emigrants in Bermuda ] [ Thoughts in a Garden ] [ To His Coy Mistress ] |
