October Poem--Andrew Marvell--To His Coy Mistress

While I consider carefully the particulars of my indictment yesterday by recent circumstances and only secondarily by Ms. Paglia, the final October Poem. Nothing particularly autumnal about it, but a long-time favorite and a cache of wonderful phrases. (I particularly like the "vaster than empires and more slow," when critiquing the amount of time it can take some members of my household to prepare themselves. She is always quick to remind me, "The grave's a fine and private place.")

To His Coy Mistress
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 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 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 honour 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.