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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.

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
Sea
Vomit
Propriety
Dutch
Fell

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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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The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
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Music, the mosaic of the air.
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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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And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
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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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Twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one To live in paradise alone.
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How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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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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But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
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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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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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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
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Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
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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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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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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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