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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