Andrew Marvell

My mind was once the true survey Of all these meadows fresh and gay, And in the greenness of the grass Did see its hopes as in a glass; When Juliana came, and she What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me. But these, while I with sorrow pine, Grew more luxuriant still and fine, That not one blade of grass you spy’d But had a flower on either side; When Juliana came, and she What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me. Unthankful meadows, could you so A fellowship so true forgo? And in your gaudy May-games meet While I lay trodden under feet? When Juliana came, and she What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me. But what you in compassion ought, Shall now by my revenge be wrought; And flow’rs, and grass, and I and all, Will in one common ruin fall. For Juliana comes, and she What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me. And thus, ye meadows, which have been Companions of my thoughts more green, Shall now the heraldry become With which I shall adorn my tomb; For Juliana comes, and she What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.

Luxurious man, to bring his vice in use, Did after him the world seduce, And from the fields the flowers and plants allure, Where nature was most plain and pure. He first enclosed within the gardens square A dead and standing pool of air, And a more luscious earth for them did knead, Which stupified 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 flowers themselves were taught to paint. The tulip, white, did for complexion seek, And learned to interline its cheek: Its onion root they then so high did hold, That one was for a meadow sold. Another world was searched, through oceans new, To find the Marvel of Peru.

How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their uncessant labours see Crown’d from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all flow’rs and all trees do close To weave the garlands of repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear! Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men; Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude, To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So am’rous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress’ name; Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion’s heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race: Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wond’rous life in this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons as I pass, Ensnar’d with flow’rs, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find, Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that’s made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain’s sliding foot, Or at some fruit tree’s mossy root, Casting the body’s vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide; There like a bird it sits and sings, Then whets, and combs its silver wings; And, till prepar’d for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walk’d without a mate; After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share To wander solitary there: Two paradises ’twere in one To live in paradise alone. How well the skillful gard’ner drew Of flow’rs and herbs this dial new, Where from above the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run; And as it works, th’ industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon’d but with herbs and flow’rs!

Clora, come view my soul, and tell Whether I have contrived it well. Now all its several lodgings lie Composed into one gallery; And the great arras-hangings, made Of various faces, by are laid; That, for all furniture, you’ll find Only your picture in my mind. Here thou are painted in the dress Of an inhuman murderess; Examining upon our hearts Thy fertile shop of cruel arts: Engines more keen than ever yet Adorned a tyrant’s cabinet; Of which the most tormenting are Black eyes, red lips, and curlèd hair. But, on the other side, th’art drawn Like to Aurora in the dawn; When in the East she slumbering lies, And stretches out her milky thighs; While all the morning choir does sing, And manna falls, and roses spring; And, at thy feet, the wooing doves Sit pérfecting their harmless loves. Like an enchantress here thou show’st, Vexing thy restless lover’s ghost; And, by a light obscure, dost rave Over his entrails, in the cave; Divining thence, with horrid care, How long thou shalt continue fair; And (when informed) them throw’st away, To be the greedy vulture’s prey. But, against that, thou sit’st afloat Like Venus in her pearly boat. The halcyons, calming all that’s nigh, Betwixt the air and water fly; Or, if some rolling wave appears, A mass of ambergris it bears. Nor blows more wind than what may well Convoy the perfume to the smell. These pictures and a thousand more Of thee my gallery do store In all the forms thou canst invent Either to please me, or torment: For thou alone to people me, Art grown a numerous colony; And a collection choicer far Than or Whitehall’s or Mantua’s were. But, of these pictures and the rest, That at the entrance likes me best: Where the same posture, and the look Remains, with which I first was took: A tender shepherdess, whose hair Hangs loosely playing in the air, Transplanting flowers from the green hill, To crown her head, and bosom fill.

To make a final conquest of all me, Love did compose so sweet an enemy, In whom both beauties to my death agree, Joining themselves in fatal harmony; That while she with her eyes my heart does bind, She with her voice might captivate my mind. I could have fled from one but singly fair, My disentangled soul itself might save, Breaking the curled trammels of her hair. But how should I avoid to be her slave, Whose subtle art invisibly can wreath My fetters of the very air I breathe? It had been easy fighting in some plain, Where victory might hang in equal choice, But all resistance against her is vain, Who has th’advantage both of eyes and voice, And all my forces needs must be undone, She having gained both the wind and sun.

DORINDA When death shall part us from these kids, And shut up our divided lids, Tell me, Thyrsis, prithee do, Whither thou and I must go. THYRSIS To the Elysium. DORINDA Oh, where is’t? THYRSIS A chaste soul can never miss’t. DORINDA I know no way but to our home, Is our cell Elysium? THYRSIS Turn thine eye to yonder sky, There the milky way doth lie; ’Tis a sure but rugged way, That leads to everlasting day. DORINDA There birds may nest, but how can I That have no wings and cannot fly? THYRSIS Do not sigh, fair nymph, for fire Hath no wings yet doth aspire Till it hit against the Pole: Heaven’s the centre of the soul. DORINDA But in Elysium how do they Pass eternity away? THYRSIS Oh, there’s neither hope nor fear, There’s no wolf, no fox, no bear. No need of dog to fetch our stray, Our Lightfoot we may give away; No oat-pipe’s needful; there thy ears May sleep with music of the spheres. DORINDA Oh sweet! Oh sweet! How I my future state By silent thinking antedate: I prithee let us spend our time to come In talking of Elysium. THYRSIS Then I’ll go on. There sheep are full Of sweetest grass and softest wool; There birds sing consorts, garlands grow, Cool winds do whisper, springs do flow. There always is a rising sun, And day is ever but begun. Shepherds there bear equal sway, And every nymph’s a Queen of May. DORINDA Ah me, ah me! THYRSIS Dorinda, why dost cry? DORINDA I’m sick, I’m sick, and fain would die. Convince me now that this is true By bidding with me all adieu. THYRSIS I cannot live without thee, I, I’ll for thee, much more with thee, die. CHORUS Then let us give Corillo charge o’ the sheep, And thou and I’ll pick poppies, and them steep In wine, and drink on’t even till we weep, So shall we smoothly pass away in sleep.

SOUL O who shall, from this dungeon, raise A soul enslav’d so many ways? With bolts of bones, that fetter’d stands In feet, and manacled in hands; Here blinded with an eye, and there Deaf with the drumming of an ear; A soul hung up, as ’twere, in chains Of nerves, and arteries, and veins; Tortur’d, besides each other part, In a vain head, and double heart. BODY O who shall me deliver whole From bonds of this tyrannic soul? Which, stretch’d upright, impales me so That mine own precipice I go; And warms and moves this needless frame, (A fever could but do the same) And, wanting where its spite to try, Has made me live to let me die. A body that could never rest, Since this ill spirit it possest. SOUL What magic could me thus confine Within another’s grief to pine? Where whatsoever it complain, I feel, that cannot feel, the pain; And all my care itself employs; That to preserve which me destroys; Constrain’d not only to endure Diseases, but, what’s worse, the cure; And ready oft the port to gain, Am shipwreck’d into health again. BODY But physic yet could never reach The maladies thou me dost teach; Whom first the cramp of hope does tear, And then the palsy shakes of fear; The pestilence of love does heat, Or hatred’s hidden ulcer eat; Joy’s cheerful madness does perplex, Or sorrow’s other madness vex; Which knowledge forces me to know, And memory will not forego. What but a soul could have the wit To build me up for sin so fit? So architects do square and hew Green trees that in the forest grew.

Courage, my Soul, now learn to wield The weight of thine immortal shield. Close on thy head thy helmet bright. Balance thy sword against the fight. See where an army, strong as fair, With silken banners spreads the air. Now, if thou be’st that thing divine, In this day’s combat let it shine: And show that Nature wants an art To conquer one resolvèd heart. PLEASURE Welcome the creation’s guest, Lord of earth, and heaven’s heir. Lay aside that warlike crest, And of Nature’s banquet share: Where the souls of fruits and flowers Stand prepared to heighten yours. SOUL I sup above, and cannot stay To bait so long upon the way. PLEASURE On these downy pillows lie, Whose soft plumes will thither fly: On these roses strewed so plain Lest one leaf thy side should strain. SOUL My gentler rest is on a thought, Conscious of doing what I ought. PLEASURE If thou be’st with perfumes pleased, Such as oft the gods appeased, Thou in fragrant clouds shalt show Like another god below. SOUL A soul that knows not to presume Is heaven’s and its own perfume. PLEASURE Everything does seem to vie Which should first attract thine eye: But since none deserves that grace, In this crystal view thy face. SOUL When the Creator’s skill is prized, The rest is all but earth disguised. PLEASURE Hark how music then prepares For thy stay these charming airs; Which the posting winds recall, And suspend the river’s fall. SOUL Had I but any time to lose, On this I would it all dispose. Cease, tempter. None can chain a mind Whom this sweet chordage cannot bind. CHORUS Earth cannot show so brave a sight As when a single soul does fence The batteries of alluring sense, And heaven views it with delight. Then persevere: for still new charges sound: And if thou overcom’st, thou shalt be crowned. PLEASURE All this fair, and soft, and sweet, Which scatteringly doth shine, Shall within one beauty meet, And she be only thine. SOUL If things of sight such heavens be, What heavens are those we cannot see? PLEASURE Wheresoe’er thy foot shall go The minted gold shall lie, Till thou purchase all below, And want new worlds to buy. SOUL Were’t not a price, who’d value gold? And that’s worth naught that can be sold. PLEASURE Wilt thou all the glory have That war or peace commend? Half the world shall be thy slave The other half thy friend. SOUL What friends, if to my self untrue! What slaves, unless I captive you! PLEASURE Thou shalt know each hidden cause; And see the future time: Try what depth the centre draws; And then to heaven climb. SOUL None thither mounts by the degree Of knowledge, but humility. CHORUS Triumph, triumph, victorious Soul; The world has not one pleasure more: The rest does lie beyond the Pole, And is thine everlasting store.

My love is of a birth as rare As ’tis for object strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility. Magnanimous Despair alone Could show me so divine a thing Where feeble Hope could ne’er have flown, But vainly flapp’d its tinsel wing. And yet I quickly might arrive Where my extended soul is fixt, But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt. For Fate with jealous eye does see Two perfect loves, nor lets them close; Their union would her ruin be, And her tyrannic pow’r depose. And therefore her decrees of steel Us as the distant poles have plac’d, (Though love’s whole world on us doth wheel) Not by themselves to be embrac’d; Unless the giddy heaven fall, And earth some new convulsion tear; And, us to join, the world should all Be cramp’d into a planisphere. 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.

Hark how the Mower Damon sung, With love of Juliana stung! While everything did seem to paint The scene more fit for his complaint. Like her fair eyes the day was fair, But scorching like his am’rous care. Sharp like his scythe his sorrow was, And withered like his hopes the grass. ‘Oh what unusual heats are here, Which thus our sunburned meadows sear! The grasshopper its pipe gives o’er; And hamstringed frogs can dance no more. But in the brook the green frog wades; And grasshoppers seek out the shades. Only the snake, that kept within, Now glitters in its second skin. ‘This heat the sun could never raise, Nor Dog Star so inflame the days. It from an higher beauty grow’th, Which burns the fields and mower both: Which mads the dog, and makes the sun Hotter than his own Phaëton. Not July causeth these extremes, But Juliana’s scorching beams. ‘Tell me where I may pass the fires Of the hot day, or hot desires. To what cool cave shall I descend, Or to what gelid fountain bend? Alas! I look for ease in vain, When remedies themselves complain. No moisture but my tears do rest, Nor cold but in her icy breast. ‘How long wilt thou, fair shepherdess, Esteem me, and my presents less? To thee the harmless snake I bring, Disarmèd of its teeth and sting; To thee chameleons, changing hue, And oak leaves tipped with honey dew. Yet thou, ungrateful, hast not sought Nor what they are, nor who them brought. ‘I am the Mower Damon, known Through all the meadows I have mown. On me the morn her dew distills Before her darling daffodils. And, if at noon my toil me heat, The sun himself licks off my sweat. While, going home, the evening sweet In cowslip-water bathes my feet. ‘What, though the piping shepherd stock The plains with an unnumbered flock, This scythe of mine discovers wide More ground than all his sheep do hide. With this the golden fleece I shear Of all these closes every year. And though in wool more poor than they, Yet am I richer far in hay. ‘Nor am I so deformed to sight, If in my scythe I lookèd right; In which I see my picture done, As in a crescent moon the sun. The deathless fairies take me oft To lead them in their dances soft: And, when I tune myself to sing, About me they contract their ring. ‘How happy might I still have mowed, Had not Love here his thistles sowed! But now I all the day complain, Joining my labour to my pain; And with my scythe cut down the grass, Yet still my grief is where it was: But, when the iron blunter grows, Sighing, I whet my scythe and woes.’ While thus he threw his elbow round, Depopulating all the ground, And, with his whistling scythe, does cut Each stroke between the earth and root, The edgèd steel by careless chance Did into his own ankle glance; And there among the grass fell down, By his own scythe, the Mower mown. ‘Alas!’ said he, ‘these hurts are slight To those that die by love’s despite. With shepherd’s-purse, and clown’s-all-heal, The blood I staunch, and wound I seal. Only for him no cure is found, Whom Juliana’s eyes do wound. ’Tis death alone that this must do: For Death thou art a Mower too.’