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"To His Coy Mistress" and Other Poems

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    TO HIS COY MISTRESS

    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 loves day.
    Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
    Should'st 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 die 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 winged 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 preserv'd virginity:
    And your quaint honor 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 am'rous birds of prey,
    Rather at once our time devour,
    Than languish in his slow-chapp'd 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.


    THE DEFINITION OF LOVE

    My love is of a birth as rare
    As 'tis for object strange and high:
    It was begotten by Despair
    Upon Impossibility.

    Magnanimous Despair alone
    Could show me so divine a thing,
    Where feeble Hope could ne'er have flown
    But vainly flapp'd its tinsel wing.

    And yet I quickly might arrive
    Where my extended soul is fix'd,
    But Fate does iron wedges drive,
    And always crowds itself betwixt.

    For Fate with jealous eye does see
    Two perfect loves; nor lets them close:
    Their union would her ruin be,
    And her tyrannic pow'r depose.

    And therefore her decrees of steel
    Us as the distant poles have plac'd,
    (Though love's whole world on us doth wheel)
    Not by themselves to be embrac'd,

    Unless the giddy heaven fall,
    And earth some new convulsion tear;
    And, us to join, the world should all
    Be cramp'd into a planisphere.

    As lines so loves oblique may well
    Themselves in every angle greet:
    But ours so truly parallel,
    Though infinite can never meet.

    Therefore the love which us doth bind,
    But Fate so enviously debars,
    Is the conjunction of the mind,
    And opposition of the stars.


    THE MOWER TO THE GLOWWORMS

    Ye living lamps, by whose dear light
    The nightingale does sit so late,
    And studying all the summer-night,
    Her matchless songs does meditate;

    Ye country comets, that portend
    No war, nor princes funeral,
    Shining unto no higher end
    Than to presage the grass's fall;

    Ye glowworms, whose officious flame
    To wand'ring mowers shows the way,
    That in the night have lost their aim,
    And after foolish fires do stray;

    Your courteous lights in vain you waste,
    Since Juliana here is come,
    For she my mind hath so displac'd That
    I shall never find my home.


    THE MOWER AGAINST GARDENS

    Luxurious man, to bring his vice in use,
    Did after him the world seduce:
    And from the fields the flow rs and plants allure,
    Where Nature was most plain and pure.
    He first enclos'd within the gardens square
    A dead and standing pool of air:
    And a more luscious earth for them did knead,
    Which stupefi'd them while it fed.
    The pink grew then as double as his mind;
    The nutriment did change the kind.
    With strange perfumes he did the roses taint,
    And flowers themselves were taught to paint.
    The tulip, white, did for complexion seek;
    And leam'd to interline its cheek:
    Its onion root they then so high did hold,
    That one was for a meadow sold.
    Another world was search'd, through oceans new,
    To find the marvel of Peru.
    And yet these rarities might be allow'd,
    To man, that sov'reign thing and proud;
    Had he not dealt between the bark and tree,
    Forbidden mixtures there to see.
    No plant now knew the stock from which it came;
    He grafts upon the wild the tame:
    That the uncertain and adult'rate fruit
    Might put the palate in dispute.
    His green seraglio has its eunuchs too;
    Lest any tyrant him outdo.
    And in the cherry he does Nature vex,
    To procreate without a sex.
    Tis all enforc'd; the fountain and the grot;
    While the sweet fields do lie forgot:
    Where willing Nature does to all dispense
    A wild and fragrant innocence:
    And fawns and fairies do the meadows till,
    More by their presence than their skill.
    Their statues polish'd by some ancient hand,
    May to adorn the gardens stand:
    But howsoe'er the figures do excel,
    The gods themselves with us do dwell.


    DAMON THE MOWER

    Hark how the mower Damon sung,
    With love of Juliana stung!
    While ev'rything did seem to paint
    The scene more fit for his complaint.
    Like her fair eyes the day was fair;
    But scorching like his am'rous care.
    Sharp like his scythe his sorrow was,
    And wither'd like his hopes the grass.

    "Oh what unusual heats are here,
    Which thus our sun-bum'd meadows sear!
    The grasshopper its pipe gives o'er;
    And hamstring'd frogs can dance no more.
    But in the brook the green frog wades;
    And grasshoppers seek out the shades.
    Only the snake, that kept within,
    Now glitters in its second skin.

    "This heat the sun could never raise,
    Nor Dog-star so inflames the days.
    It from an higher beauty grow'th,
    Which burns the fields and mower both:
    Which made the Dog, and makes the sun
    Hotter than his own Phaeton.
    Not July causeth these extremes,
    But Juliana's scorching beams.

    "Tell me where I may pass the fires
    Of the hot day, or hot desires.
    To what cool cave shall I descend,
    Or to what gelid fountain bend?
    Alas! I look for ease in vain,
    When remedies themselves complain.
    No moisture but my tears do rest,
    Nor cold but in her icy breast.

    "How long wilt thou, fair Shepherdess,
    Esteem me, and my presents less?
    To thee the harmless snake I bring,
    Disarmed of its teeth and sting.
    To thee chameleons changing hue,
    And oak leaves tipp'd with honey dew.
    Yet thou ungrateful hast not sought
    Nor what they are, nor who them brought.

    "I am the Mower Damon, known
    Through all the meadows I have mown.
    On me the mom her dew distills
    Before her darling daffodils.
    And, if at noon my toil me heat,
    The sun himself licks off my sweat.
    While, going home, the ev'ning sweet
    In cowslip-water bathes my feet.

    "What, though the piping shepherd stock
    The plains with an unnumber'd flock,
    This scythe of mine discovers wide
    More ground than all his sheep do hide.
    With this the golden fleece I shear
    Of all these closes ev'ry year.
    And though in wool more poor than they,
    Yet am I richer far in hay.

    "Nor am I so deform'd to sight,
    If in my scythe I looked right;
    In which I see my picture done,
    As in a crescent moon the sun.
    The deathless fairies take me oft To lead
    them in their dances soft;
    And, when I tune myself to sing,
    About me they contract their ring.

    "How happy might I still have mow'd,
    Had not Love here his thistles sow'd!
    But now I all the day complain,
    Joining my labor to my pain;
    And with my scythe cut down the grass,
    Yet still my grief is where it was:
    But, when the iron blunter grows,
    Sighing I whet my scythe and woes."

    While thus he threw his elbow round,
    Depopulating all the ground,
    And, with his whistling scythe, does cut
    Each stroke between the earth and root,
    The edged steel by careless chance
    Did into his own ankle glance;
    And there among the grass fell down,
    By his own scythe, the mower mown.

    "Alas!" said he," these hurts are slight
    To those that die by Loves despite.
    With shepherds purse, and clowns allheal,
    The blood I staunch, and wound I seal.
    Only for him no cure is found,
    Whom Juliana s eyes do wound.
    Tis death alone that this must do:
    For, Death, thou art a mower too."


    THE MOWER'S SONG

      My mind was once the true survey
      Of all these meadows fresh and gay;
      And in the greenness of the grass
      Did see its hopes as in a glass;
      When Juliana came, and she
    What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.

      But these, while I with sorrow pine,
      Grew more luxuriant still and fine;
      That not one blade of grass you spi'd,
      But had a flower on either side;
      When Juliana came, and she
    What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.

      Unthankful meadows, could you so
      A fellowship so true forgo,
      And in your gaudy May-games meet,
      While I lay trodden under feet?
      When Juliana came, and she
    What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.

      But what you in compassion ought,
      Shall now by my revenge be wrought:
      And flow'rs, and grass, and I and all,
      Will in one common ruin fall.
      For Juliana comes, and she
    What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.

      And thus, ye meadows, which have been
      Companions of my thoughts more green,
      Shall now the heraldry become
      With which I shall adorn my tomb;
      For Juliana comes, and she
    What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.


    THE UNFORTUNATE LOVER

    Alas, how pleasant are their days With
    whom the infant Love yet plays!
    Sorted by pairs, they still are seen
    By fountains cool, and shadows green.
    But soon these flames do lose their light,
    Like meteors of a summer's night:
    Nor can they to that region climb,
    To make impression upon time.

    Twas in a shipwreck, when the seas
    Rul'd, and the winds did what they please,
    That my poor lover floating lay,
    And, ere brought forth, was cast away:
    Till at the last the master-wave
    Upon the rock his mother drave;
    And there she split against the stone,
    In a Caesarean section.

    The sea him lent these bitter tears
    Which at his eyes he always bears.
    And from the winds the sighs he bore,
    Which through his surging breast do roar.
    No day he saw but that which breaks
    Through frighted clouds in forked streaks.
    While round the rattling thunder hurl'd,
    As at the fun'ral of the world.

    While Nature to his birth presents
    This masque of quarreling elements,
    A num'rous fleet of corm'rants black,
    That sail'd insulting o'er the wrack,
    Receiv'd into their cruel care
    Th' unfortunate and abject heir:
    Guardians most fit to entertain
    The orphan of the hurricane.

    They fed him up with hopes and air,
    Which soon digested to despair.
    And as one corm'rant fed him, still
    Another on his heart did bill.
    Thus while they famish him, and feast,
    He both consumèd, and increas'd:
    And languishèd with doubtful breath,
    Th' amphibium of life and death.

    And now, when angry heaven would
    Behold a spectacle of blood,
    Fortune and he are call'd to play
    At sharp before it all the day:
    And tyrant Love his breast does ply
    With all his wing'd artillery,
    Whilst he, betwixt the flames and waves,
    Like Ajax, the mad tempest braves.

    See how he nak'd and fierce does stand,
    Cuffing the thunder with one hand;
    While with the other he does lock
    And grapple with the stubborn rock:
    From which he with each wave rebounds,
    Tom into flames, and ragg'd with wounds.
    And all he says, a lover drest
    In his own blood does relish best.

    This is the only banneret
    That ever Love created yet:
    Who though, by the malignant stars,
    Forcèd to live in storms and wars:
    Yet dying leaves a perfume here,
    And music within every ear:
    And he in story only rules,
    In a field sable a lover gules.


    THE GALLERY

    Clora, come view my soul, and tell
    Whether I have contriv'd it well.
    Now all its several lodgings lie
    Compos'd into one gallery;
    And the great arras-hangings, made
    Of various faces, by are laid;
    That, for all furniture, you'll find
    Only your picture in my mind.

    Here thou art painted in the dress
    Of an inhuman murderess,
    Examining upon our hearts
    Thy fertile shop of cruel arts:
    Engines more keen than ever yet
    Adorned tyrant's cabinet,
    Of which the most tormenting are
    Black eyes, red lips, and curlèd hair.

    But, on the other side, th' art drawn
    Like to Aurora in the dawn;
    When in the east she slumb'ring lies,
    And stretches out her milky thighs;
    While all the morning choir does sing,
    And manna falls, and roses spring;
    And, at thy feet, the wooing doves
    Sit perfecting their harmless loves.

    Like an enchantress here thou show'st,
    Vexing thy restless lover's ghost;
    And, by a light obscure, dost rave
    Over his entrails, in the cave;
    Divining thence, with horrid care,
    How long thou shalt continue fair;
    And (when inform'd) them throw'st away,
    To be the greedy vulture's prey.

    But, against that, thou sitt'st afloat
    Like Venus in her pearly boat.
    The halcyons, calming all that's nigh,
    Betwixt the air and water fly.
    Or, if some rolling wave appears,
    A mass of ambergris it bears.
    Nor blows more wind than what may
    well Convoy the perfume to the smell.

    These pictures and a thousand more,
    Of thee, my gallery do store;
    In all the forms thou canst invent Either
    to please me, or torment:
    For thou alone to people me,
    Art grown a num'rous colony;
    And a collection choicer far
    Than or Whitehall's, or Mantua's were.

    But, of these pictures and the rest,
    That at the entrance likes me best:
    Where the same posture, and the look
    Remains, with which I first was took.
    A tender shepherdess, whose hair
    Hangs loosely playing in the air,
    Transplanting flow'rs from the green hill,
    To crown her head, and bosom fill.


    THE FAIR SINGER

    To make a final conquest of all me,
    Love did compose so sweet an enemy,
    In whom both beauties to my death agree,
    Joining themselves in fatal harmony;
    That while she with her eyes my heart does bind,
    She with her voice might captivate my mind.

    I could have fled from one but singly fair:
    My disentangled soul itself might save,
    Breaking the curled trammels of her hair.
    But how should I avoid to be her slave,
    Whose subtle art invisibly can wreathe
    My fetters of the very air I breathe?

    It had been easy fighting in some plain,
    Where victory might hang in equal choice,
    But all resistance against her is vain,
    Who has th' advantage both of eyes and voice,
    And all my forces needs must be undone,
    She having gained both the wind and sun.


    MOURNING

    You, that decipher out the fate
    Of human offsprings from the skies,
    What mean these infants which of late
    Spring from the stars of Chloras eyes?

    Her eyes confus'd, and doublèd o'er,
    With tears suspended ere they flow;
    Seem bending upwards, to restore
    To heaven, whence it came, their woe.

    When, molding of the wat'ry spheres,
    Slow drops untie themselves away;
    As if she, with those precious tears,
    Would strow the ground where Strephon lay.

    Yet some affirm, pretending art,
    Her eyes have so her bosom drown'd,
    Only to soften near her heart
    A place to fix another wound.

    And, while vain pomp does her restrain
    Within her solitary bow'r,
    She courts herself in am'rous rain,
    Herself both Danae and the show'r.

    Nay others, bolder, hence esteem
    Joy now so much her master grown,
    That whatsoever does but seem
    Like grief is from her windows thrown.

    Nor that she pays, while she survives,
    To her dead love this tribute due;
    But casts abroad these donatives,
    At the installing of a new.

    How wide they dream! The Indian slaves
    That sink for pearl through seas profound,
    Would find her tears yet deeper waves
    And not of one the bottom sound.

    I yet my silent judgment keep,
    Disputing not what they believe
    But sure as oft as women weep,
    It is to be suppos'd they grieve.


    AMETAS AND THESTYLIS
    MAKING HAY-ROPES

    AMETAS
    Think'st thou that this love can stand,
    Whilst thou still dost say me nay?
    Love unpaid does soon disband:
    Love binds love as hay binds hay.

    THESTYLIS
    Think'st thou that this rope would twine
    If we both should turn one way?
    Where both parties so combine,
    Neither love will twist nor hay.

    AMETAS
    Thus you vain excuses find,
    Which yourself and us delay:
    And love ties a woman's mind
    Looser than with ropes of hay.

    THESTYLIS
    What you cannot constant hope
    Must he taken as you may.

    AMETAS
    Then let's both lay by our rope,
    And go kiss within the hay.

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Excerpted from "To His Coy Mistress" and Other Poems by Andrew Marvell, Paul Negri. Copyright © 1997 Dover Publications, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of Dover Publications, Inc..
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