To His Coy Mistress By Andrew Marvell
(1621-1678) 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 turn 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-chapped power. Let us roll all our
strength and all Our sweetness up into one
ball, And tear our pleasures
with rough strife Through the iron gates of
life: Thus, though we cannot
make our sun Stand still, yet we will
make him run. |