Andrew Marvell

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.

But Fate does iron wedges drive,And always crowds itself betwixt.

He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene.

To wander solitary there:Two paradises __were in oneTo live in paradise alone.

My vegetable love will growVaster than empires, and more slow.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpiresAt 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-chapt power.

Had we but world enough, and time...

Thus, though we cannot make our sunStand still, yet we will make him run.

Had we but world enough, and time

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 Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

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__ day.

But at my back I always hear Time__ wingèd chariot hurrying near

But at my back I always hear Time__ 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 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__ a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.

The grave's a fine and private place,But none, I think, do there embrace.

My love is of a birth as rareAs 'tis, for object, strange and high;It was begotten by DespairUpon Impossibility.