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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
Crowds
Drive
Fate
Doe
Always
Betwixt
Wedges
Iron

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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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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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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 glade ... Such was that happy garden-state.
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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
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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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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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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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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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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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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
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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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Twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one To live in paradise alone.
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Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.
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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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Music, the mosaic of the air.
Andrew Marvell
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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.
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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
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