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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.

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
Edges
Scene
Common
Upon
Eye
Nothing
Keener
Mean
Memorable
Trying
Edge

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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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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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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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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.
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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
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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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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
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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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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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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
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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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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
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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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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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Had it lived long, is would have been Lilies without, roses within.
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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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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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