Andrew Marvell

Come, little infant, love me now, While thine unsuspected years Clear thine agèd father’s brow From cold jealousy and fears. Pretty, surely, ’twere to see By young love old time beguiled, While our sportings are as free As the nurse’s with the child. Common beauties stay fifteen; Such as yours should swifter move, Whose fair blossoms are too green Yet for lust, but not for love. Love as much the snowy lamb, Or the wanton kid, does prize, As the lusty bull or ram, For his morning sacrifice. Now then love me: time may take Thee before thy time away: Of this need we’ll virtue make, And learn love before we may. So we win of doubtful fate; And if good she to us meant, We that good shall antedate, Or, if ill, that ill prevent. Thus as kingdoms, frustrating Other titles to their crown, In the cradle crown their king, So all foreign claims to drown, So, to make all rivals vain, Now I crown thee with my love: Crown me with thy love again, And we both shall monarchs prove.

TO THE LORD FAIRFAX See how the archèd earth does here Rise in a perfect hemisphere! The stiffest compass could not strike A line more circular and like; Nor softest pencil draw a brow So equal as this hill does bow. It seems as for a model laid, And that the world by it was made. Here learn, ye mountains more unjust, Which to abrupter greatness thrust, That do with your hook-shouldered height The earth deform and heaven fright, For whose excrescence, ill-designed, Nature must a new centre find, Learn here those humble steps to tread, Which to securer glory lead. See what a soft access and wide Lies open to its grassy side; Nor with the rugged path deters The feet of breathless travellers. See then how courteous it ascends, And all the way it rises bends; Nor for itself the height does gain, But only strives to raise the plain. Yet thus it all the field commands, And in unenvied greatness stands, Discerning further than the cliff Of heaven-daring Tenerife. How glad the weary seamen haste When they salute it from the mast! By night the Northern Star their way Directs, and this no less by day. Upon its crest this mountain grave A plump of agèd trees does wave. No hostile hand durst ere invade With impious steel the sacred shade. For something always did appear Of the great Master’s terror there: And men could hear his armour still Rattling through all the grove and hill. Fear of the Master, and respect Of the great Nymph, did it protect, Vera the Nymph that him inspired, To whom he often here retired, And on these oaks engraved her name; Such wounds alone these woods became: But ere he well the barks could part ’Twas writ already in their heart. For they (’tis credible) have sense, As we, of love and reverence, And underneath the coarser rind The genius of the house do bind. Hence they successes seem to know, And in their Lord’s advancement grow; But in no memory were seen, As under this, so straight and green; Yet now no further strive to shoot, Contented if they fix their root. Nor to the wind’s uncertain gust, Their prudent heads too far intrust. Only sometimes a fluttering breeze Discourses with the breathing trees, Which in their modest whispers name Those acts that swelled the cheek of fame. ‘Much other groves’, say they, ‘than these And other hills him once did please. Through groves of pikes he thundered then, And mountains raised of dying men. For all the civic garlands due To him, our branches are but few. Nor are our trunks enow to bear The trophies of one fertile year.’ ’Tis true, ye trees, nor ever spoke More certain oracles in oak. But peace, (if you his favour prize): That courage its own praises flies. Therefore to your obscurer seats From his own brightness he retreats: Nor he the hills without the groves, Nor height, but with retirement, loves.

Within this sober frame expect Work of no foreign architect; That unto caves the quarries drew, And forests did to pastures hew; Who of his great design in pain Did for a model vault his brain; Whose columns should so high be rais’d To arch the brows that on them gaz’d. Why should of all things man unrul’d Such unproportion’d dwellings build? The beasts are by their dens exprest, And birds contrive an equal nest; The low roof’d tortoises do dwell In cases fit of tortoise-shell; No creature loves an empty space; Their bodies measure out their place. But he, superfluously spread, Demands more room alive than dead; And in his hollow palace goes Where winds as he themselves may lose. What need of all this marble crust T’impark the wanton mote of dust, That thinks by breadth the world t’unite Though the first builders fail’d in height? But all things are composed here Like nature, orderly and near; In which we the dimensions find Of that more sober age and mind, When larger sized men did stoop To enter at a narrow loop; As practising, in doors so straight, To strain themselves through Heaven’s gate. And surely when the after age Shall hither come in pilgrimage, These sacred places to adore, By Vere and Fairfax trod before, Men will dispute how their extent Within such dwarfish confines went; And some will smile at this, as well As Romulus his bee-like cell. Humility alone designs Those short but admirable lines, By which, ungirt and unconstrain’d, Things greater are in less contain’d. Let others vainly strive t’immure The circle in the quadrature! These holy mathematics can In ev’ry figure equal man. Yet thus the laden house does sweat, And scarce endures the master great, But where he comes the swelling hall Stirs, and the square grows spherical; More by his magnitude distress’d, Then he is by its straightness press’d, And too officiously it slights That in itself which him delights. So honour better lowness bears, Than that unwonted greatness wears; Height with a certain grace does bend, But low things clownishly ascend. And yet what needs there here excuse, Where ev’ry thing does answer use? Where neatness nothing can condemn, Nor pride invent what to contemn? A stately frontispiece of poor Adorns without the open door; Nor less the rooms within commends Daily new furniture of friends. The house was built upon the place Only as for a mark of grace; And for an inn to entertain Its lord a while, but not remain. Him Bishops-Hill, or Denton may, Or Billbrough, better hold than they; But nature here hath been so free As if she said leave this to me. Art would more neatly have defac’d What she had laid so sweetly waste; In fragrant gardens, shady woods, Deep meadows, and transparent floods.

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 Ruled, 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 sectión. The sea him lent those bitter tears Which at his eyes he always wears; 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 forkèd streaks, While round the rattling thunder hurled, As at the funeral of the world. While Nature to his birth presents This masque of quarrelling elements, A numerous fleet of cormorants black, That sailed insulting o’er the wrack, Received 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 cormorant fed him, still Another on his heart did bill, Thus while they famish him, and feast, He both consumèd, and increased: And languishèd with doubtful breath, The amphibíum of life and death. And now, when angry heaven would Behold a spectacle of blood, Fortune and he are called to play At sharp before it all the day: And tyrant Love his breast does ply With all his winged 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, Torn into flames, and ragg’d with wounds, And all he ’says, a lover dressed 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.

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

See with what simplicity This nymph begins her golden days! In the green grass she loves to lie, And there with her fair aspect tames The wilder flowers, and gives them names: But only with the roses plays; And them does tell What colour best becomes them, and what smell. Who can foretell for what high cause This Darling of the Gods was born! Yet this is she whose chaster laws The wanton Love shall one day fear, And, under her command severe, See his bow broke and ensigns torn. Happy, who can Appease this virtuous enemy of man! O, then let me in time compound, And parley with those conquering eyes; Ere they have tried their force to wound, Ere, with their glancing wheels, they drive In triumph over hearts that strive, And them that yield but more despise. Let me be laid, Where I may see thy glories from some shade. Meantime, whilst every verdant thing Itself does at thy beauty charm, Reform the errors of the spring; Make that the tulips may have share Of sweetness, seeing they are fair; And roses of their thorns disarm: But most procure That violets may a longer age endure. But, O young beauty of the woods, Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers, Gather the flowers, but spare the buds; Lest Flora angry at thy crime, To kill her infants in their prime, Do quickly make the example yours; And, ere we see, Nip in the blossom all our hopes and thee.

See how the orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, Yet careless of its mansion new, For the clear region where ’twas born Round in itself incloses: And in its little globe’s extent, Frames as it can its native element. How it the purple flow’r does slight, Scarce touching where it lies, But gazing back upon the skies, Shines with a mournful light, Like its own tear, Because so long divided from the sphere. Restless it rolls and unsecure, Trembling lest it grow impure, Till the warm sun pity its pain, And to the skies exhale it back again. So the soul, that drop, that ray Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Could it within the human flow’r be seen, Remembering still its former height, Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green, And recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express The greater heaven in an heaven less. In how coy a figure wound, Every way it turns away: So the world excluding round, Yet receiving in the day, Dark beneath, but bright above, Here disdaining, there in love. How loose and easy hence to go, How girt and ready to ascend, Moving but on a point below, It all about does upwards bend. Such did the manna’s sacred dew distill, White and entire, though congealed and chill, Congealed on earth : but does, dissolving, run Into the glories of th’ almighty sun.

The wanton troopers riding by Have shot my fawn, and it will die. Ungentle men! they cannot thrive To kill thee. Thou ne’er didst alive Them any harm, alas, nor could Thy death yet do them any good. I’m sure I never wish’d them ill, Nor do I for all this, nor will; But if my simple pray’rs may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears Rather than fail. But oh, my fears! It cannot die so. Heaven’s King Keeps register of everything, And nothing may we use in vain. Ev’n beasts must be with justice slain, Else men are made their deodands; Though they should wash their guilty hands In this warm life-blood, which doth part From thine, and wound me to the heart, Yet could they not be clean, their stain Is dyed in such a purple grain. There is not such another in The world to offer for their sin. Unconstant Sylvio, when yet I had not found him counterfeit One morning (I remember well) Tied in this silver chain and bell, Gave it to me; nay, and I know What he said then; I’m sure I do. Said he, “Look how your huntsman here Hath taught a fawn to hunt his dear.” But Sylvio soon had me beguil’d, This waxed tame, while he grew wild; And quite regardless of my smart, Left me his fawn, but took his heart. Thenceforth I set myself to play My solitary time away, With this, and very well content Could so mine idle life have spent; For it was full of sport, and light Of foot and heart, and did invite Me to its game; it seem’d to bless Itself in me. How could I less Than love it? Oh, I cannot be Unkind t’ a beast that loveth me. Had it liv’d long, I do not know Whether it too might have done so As Sylvio did; his gifts might be Perhaps as false or more than he. But I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy, Thy love was far more better then The love of false and cruel men. With sweetest milk and sugar first I it at mine own fingers nurst; And as it grew, so every day It wax’d more white and sweet than they. It had so sweet a breath! And oft I blush’d to see its foot more soft And white, shall I say than my hand? Nay, any lady’s of the land. It is a wond’rous thing how fleet ’Twas on those little silver feet; With what a pretty skipping grace It oft would challenge me the race; And when ’t had left me far away, ’Twould stay, and run again, and stay, For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod, as on the four winds. I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness; And all the spring time of the year It only loved to be there. Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft, where it should lie; Yet could not, till itself would rise, Find it, although before mine eyes; For, in the flaxen lilies’ shade, It like a bank of lilies laid. Upon the roses it would feed Until its lips ev’n seemed to bleed, And then to me ’twould boldly trip And print those roses on my lip. But all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to fill, And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold. Had it liv’d long it would have been Lilies without, roses within. O help, O help! I see it faint, And die as calmly as a saint. See how it weeps! The tears do come, Sad, slowly dropping like a gum. So weeps the wounded balsam, so The holy frankincense doth flow; The brotherless Heliades Melt in such amber tears as these. I in a golden vial will Keep these two crystal tears, and fill It till it do o’erflow with mine, Then place it in Diana’s shrine. Now my sweet fawn is vanish’d to Whither the swans and turtles go, In fair Elysium to endure With milk-white lambs and ermines pure. O do not run too fast, for I Will but bespeak thy grave, and die. First my unhappy statue shall Be cut in marble, and withal Let it be weeping too; but there Th’ engraver sure his art may spare, For I so truly thee bemoan That I shall weep though I be stone; Until my tears, still dropping, wear My breast, themselves engraving there. There at my feet shalt thou be laid, Of purest alabaster made; For I would have thine image be White as I can, though not as thee.

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 prince’s funeral, Shining unto no higher end Than to presage the grass’s fall; Ye glow-worms, 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.

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 garden’s square A dead and standing pool of air; And a more luscious earth for them did knead, Which stupefied 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 flow’rs themselves were taught to paint. The tulip, white, did for complexion seek, And learn’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 out-do; 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 fauns 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 howso’ere the figures do excel, The gods themselves with us do dwell.