by Andrew Marvell

    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 rubies¹ 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 conversion² 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 eternity³.

    Thy beauty shall no more be found，

    Nor， in thy marble vault⁴， shall sound

    My echoing song： then worms shall try

    That long preserved virginity，

    And your quaint⁵ honour turn to dust，

    And into ashes all my lust⁶：

    The grave's a fine and private place，

    But none， I think， do there embrace.

    Now therefore， while the youthful hue⁷

    Sits on thy skin like morning dew，

    And while thy willing soul transpires⁸

    At every pore with instant fires，

    Now let us sport us while we may，

    And now， like amorous⁹ birds of prey¹⁰，

    Rather at once our time devour¹¹

    Than languish¹² 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 strife¹³

    Thorough the iron gates of life：

    Thus， though we cannot make our sun

    Stand still， yet we will make him run.

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