To His Coy Mistress

　　by Andrew Marvell

　　 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，

　　 And you should， if you please， refuse

　　 Till the conversion of the Jews.

　　 My vegetable love should grow

　　 Vaster than empires， and more slow；

　　 An hundred years should go to praise

　　 Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze；

　　 Two hundred to adore each breast；

　　 But thirty thousand to the rest；

　　 An age at least to every part，

　　 And the last age should show your heart；

　　 For， Lady， you deserve this state，

　　 Nor would I love at lower rate.

　　 But at my back I always hear

　　 Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near；

　　 And yonder all before us lie

　　 Deserts of vast eternity.

　　 Thy beauty shall no more be found，

　　 Nor， in thy marble vault， shall sound

　　 My echoing song： then worms shall try

　　 That long preserved virginity，

　　 And your quaint honour turn to dust，

　　 And into ashes all my lust：

　　 The grave's a fine and private place，

　　 But none， I think， do there embrace.

　　 Now therefore， while the youthful hue

　　 Sits on thy skin like morning dew，

　　 And while thy willing soul transpires

　　 At every pore with instant fires，

　　 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-chapt power.

　　 Let us roll all our strength and all

　　 Our sweetness up into one ball，

　　 And tear our pleasures with rough strife

　　 Thorough the iron gates of life：

　　 Thus， though we cannot make our sun

　　 Stand still， yet we will make him run.

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