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Copy of Andrew Marvell 1621–1678 In an era that makes a better claim than most upon the familiar term transitional, Andrew Marvell is surely the single most compelling embodiment of the change that came over English society and letters in the course of the seventeenth century.

Published on Dec 01, 2015

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Andrew Marvell









1621–1678 In an era that makes a better claim than most upon the familiar term transitional, Andrew Marvell is surely the single most compelling embodiment of the change that came over English society and letters in the course of the seventeenth century.

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.

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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

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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.

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For, lady, you deserve this state,


Nor would I love at lower rate.


But at my back I always hear

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Time’s wingèd 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

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My echoing song; then worms shall try


That long-preserved 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 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,


And tear our pleasures with rough strife

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Through the iron gates of life:


Thus, though we cannot make our sun


Stand still, yet we will make him run.

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