Andrew Marvell

When for the thorns with which I long, too long, With many a piercing wound, My Saviour’s head have crowned, I seek with garlands to redress that wrong: Through every garden, every mead, I gather flowers (my fruits are only flowers), Dismantling all the fragrant towers That once adorned my shepherdess’s head. And now when I have summed up all my store, Thinking (so I myself deceive) So rich a chaplet thence to weave As never yet the King of Glory wore: Alas, I find the serpent old That, twining in his speckled breast, About the flowers disguised does fold, With wreaths of fame and interest. Ah, foolish man, that wouldst debase with them, And mortal glory, Heaven’s diadem! But Thou who only couldst the serpent tame, Either his slippery knots at once untie; And disentangle all his winding snare; Or shatter too with him my curious frame, And let these wither, so that he may die, Though set with skill and chosen out with care: That they, while Thou on both their spoils dost tread, May crown thy feet, that could not crown thy head.

C. Damon, come drive thy flocks this way. D. No, ’tis too late; they went astray. C. I have a grassy scutcheon spied, Where Flora blazons all her pride. The grass I aim to feast thy sheep: The flowers I for thy temples keep. D. Grass withers; and the flowers too fade. C. Seize the short joys then, ere they vade, Seest thou that unfrequented cave? D. That den? C. Love’s Shrine. D. But virtue’s grave. C. In whose cool bosom we may lie Safe from the sun. D. Not heaven’s eye. C. Near this, a fountain’s liquid bell Tinkles within the concave shell. D. Might a soul bathe there and be clean, Or slake its drought? C. What is’t you mean? D. These once had been enticing things, Clorinda, pastures, caves, and springs. C. And what late change? D. The other day Pan met me. C. What did great Pan say? D. Words that transcend poor shepherds’ skill, But he e’er since my songs does fill: And his name swells my slender oat. C. Sweet must Pan sound in Damon’s note. D. Clorinda’s voice might make it sweet. C. Who would not in Pan’s praises meet? CHORUS Of Pan the flowery pastures sing, Caves echo, and the fountains ring. Sing then while he doth us inspire; For all the world is our Pan’s choir.

(excerpt) Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land, As but th’ off-scouring of the British sand; And so much earth as was contributed By English pilots when they heav’d the lead; Or what by th’ ocean’s slow alluvion fell, Of shipwrack’d cockle and the mussel-shell; This indigested vomit of the sea Fell to the Dutch by just propriety. Glad then, as miners that have found the ore, They with mad labour fish’d the land to shore; And div’d as desperately for each piece Of earth, as if’t had been of ambergris; Collecting anxiously small loads of clay, Less than what building swallows bear away; Or than those pills which sordid beetles roll, Transfusing into them their dunghill soul. How did they rivet, with gigantic piles, Thorough the centre their new-catched miles; And to the stake a struggling country bound, Where barking waves still bait the forced ground; Building their watry Babel far more high To reach the sea, than those to scale the sky. Yet still his claim the injur’d ocean laid, And oft at leap-frog ore their steeples play’d: As if on purpose it on land had come To show them what’s their mare liberum. A daily deluge over them does boil; The earth and water play at level-coil; The fish oft-times the burgher dispossest, And sat not as a meat but as a guest; And oft the Tritons and the sea-nymphs saw Whole sholes of Dutch serv’d up for cabillau; Or as they over the new level rang’d For pickled herring, pickled heeren chang’d. Nature, it seem’d, asham’d of her mistake, Would throw their land away at duck and drake.

Where the remote Bermudas ride In th’ ocean’s bosom unespy’d, From a small boat, that row’d along, The list’ning winds receiv’d this song. What should we do but sing his praise That led us through the wat’ry maze Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks, That lift the deep upon their backs, He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storm’s and prelates’ rage. He gave us this eternal spring Which here enamels everything, And sends the fowls to us in care, On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright, Like golden lamps in a green night; And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. He makes the figs our mouths to meet And throws the melons at our feet, But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars, chosen by his hand, From Lebanon, he stores the land, And makes the hollow seas that roar Proclaim the ambergris on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast, And in these rocks for us did frame A temple, where to sound his name. Oh let our voice his praise exalt, Till it arrive at heaven’s vault; Which thence (perhaps) rebounding, may Echo beyond the Mexic Bay. Thus sung they in the English boat An holy and a cheerful note, And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time.

1 AMETAS Think’st thou that this love can stand, Whilst thou still dost say me nay? Love unpaid does soon disband: Love binds love as hay binds hay. 2 THESTYLIS Think’st thou that this rope would twine If we both should turn one way? Where both parties so combine, Neither love will twist nor hay. 3 AMETAS Thus you vain excuses find, Which yourselves and us delay: And love ties a woman’s mind Looser than with ropes of hay. 4 THESTYLIS What you cannot constant hope Must be taken as you may. 5 AMETAS Then let’s both lay by our rope, And go kiss within the hay.