Quote

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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Andrew Marvell
Age: 57 †
Born: 1621
Born: March 31
Died: 1678
Died: August 16
Poet
Politician
Satirist
Writer
Andrew Marvell
Cannot
Thus
Sweetness
Stills
Sun
Pleasures
Still
Tears
Gates
Make
Strength
Rough
Life
Stand
Iron
Pleasure
Roll
Though
Ball
Strife
Running
Balls
Tear

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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
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But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
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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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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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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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How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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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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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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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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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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Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.
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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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Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
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Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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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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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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