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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
Vomit
Propriety
Dutch
Fell
Sea

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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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Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.
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Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.
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What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
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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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The world in all doth but two nations bear- The good, the bad and these mixed everywhere.
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How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?
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But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
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Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.
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Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns
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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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How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
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Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
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The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
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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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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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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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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
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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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