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Had it lived long, is would have been Lilies without, roses within.

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
Would
Lilies
Roses
Rose
Flower
Lived
Within
Without
Long

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Though I carry always some ill-nature about me, yet it is, I hope, no more than is in this world necessary for a preservative.
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What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
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The world in all doth but two nations bear- The good, the bad and these mixed everywhere.
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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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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
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He nothing common did, or mean, / Upon that memorable scene, / But with his keener eye / The axe's edge did try.
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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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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
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Twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one To live in paradise alone.
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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.
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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.
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Ye country comets, that portend No war, nor prince's funeral, Shining unto no higher end Than to presage the grasses fall. . . .
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Like the vain curlings of the watery maze, Which in smooth streams a sinking weight does raise, So Man, declining always, disappears In the weak circles of increasing years And his short tumults of themselves compose, While flowing Time above his head does close.
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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
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What wondrous life is 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, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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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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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.
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Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
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