To+His+Coy+Mistress

To His Coy Mistress Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)

Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were not 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 convention of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes on on thine 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 winged chariot hurrying hear ; And yonder 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 honor turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave's fine and private place, But non, I think, do their 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 one 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 sum Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Brandie Gilchrist