Andrew Marvell quotes:

Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.

Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.

But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.

And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.

The world in all doth but two nations bear- The good, the bad; and these mixed everywhere.

So much one man can do that does both act and know.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Therefore the love which us doth bind, But fate so enviously debars, Is the conjunction of the mind, And opposition of the stars.

Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.

I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness.

And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.

Twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one To live in paradise alone.

Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green glade ... Such was that happy garden-state, ...

How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?

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.

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.

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.

The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.

As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.

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-chapped power. Let us roll our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life: Thus, while we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

But at my back I always hear Time's winged 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 preserv'd 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.

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.

He nothing common did, or mean, / Upon that memorable scene, / But with his keener eye / The axe's edge did try.

Art indeed is long, but life is short.

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.

How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run

My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.

Had it lived long, is would have been Lilies without, roses within.

My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow;

Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns

But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.

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.

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.

Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.

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.

Music, the mosaic of the air.

What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.

Ye country comets, that portend No war, nor prince's funeral, Shining unto no higher end Than to presage the grasses fall. . . .

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