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But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.

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
Drive
Fate
Doe
Always
Betwixt
Wedges
Iron
Crowds

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Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.
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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
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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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Therefore the love which us doth bind, But fate so enviously debars, Is the conjunction of the mind, And opposition of the stars.
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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
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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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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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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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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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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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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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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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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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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.
Andrew Marvell
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Music, the mosaic of the air.
Andrew Marvell
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My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.
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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. . . .
Andrew Marvell
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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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