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

Andrew Marvell

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Andrew Marvell
Age: 57 †
Born: 1621
Born: March 31
Died: 1678
Died: August 16
Poet
Politician
Satirist
Writer
Andrew Marvell
Make
Thus
Sun
Stand
Though
Running
Cannot
Stills
Still

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My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.
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But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
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Music, the mosaic of the air.
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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.
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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 its self encloses: And in its little globes extent, Frames as it can its native element.
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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
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How vainly men themselves amaze, / To win the palm, the oak, or bays / And their incessant labours see / Crowned from some single herb or tree.
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Had it lived long, is would have been Lilies without, roses within.
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How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.
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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
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Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
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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! where s'e'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found.
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Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
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I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness.
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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.
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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.
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So much one man can do that does both act and know.
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