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,
This coyness would not be so true, t’were
not for the likes of you.
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
Time is the demon in your gaze so
I’ll none of your deliberate 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.
Thy shrewdness would devour me!
wholly for thine own distorted glee.
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.
When time does come to pour my soul
and body into evermore, I’d never rest in peace!
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;
Your thoughts of me would never cease!
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,
Thrust me NOT into time’s typhoon
of swiftly racing doom.
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,
Let me lead a peaceful life full of grace
and free from strife.
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.
I’ll be fresher than the dove
long after your withering flower of love.
To His Coy Mistress
“To His Coy Mistress” is a metaphysical poem written by the English author and politician Andrew Marvell either during or just before the English Interregnum. It was published posthumously in 1681.”
The Mistresses Reply (written in jest of course 🙂 )
-Poem by J.E.Goldie 3/24/2019