Quote

As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.

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
Every
Infinite
Never
Meet
Love
Truly
Oblique
Lines
Greet
Though
Parallel
May
Parallels
Wells
Angle
Well
Loves

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What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
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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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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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The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
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How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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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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Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.
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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
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Had it lived long, is would have been Lilies without, roses within.
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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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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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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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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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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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The world in all doth but two nations bear- The good, the bad and these mixed everywhere.
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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.
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But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
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And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.
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