Andrew Marvell Quotes
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In busy companies of men.
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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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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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The world in all doth but two nations bear —The good, the bad; and these mixed everywhere.
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How fit is he to sway That can so well obey ('Horatian Ode,' 83-84),
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Society is all but rude,To this delicious solitude.
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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 honor turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust.The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
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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.
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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 shade.
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And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.
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So much one man can do,That does both act and know.
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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.
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What wondrous life in 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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This indigested vomit of the Sea,Fell to the Dutch by Just Propriety.
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To make a bank was a great plot of state;Invent a shovel, and be a magistrate.
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She with her eyes my heart does bind, She with her voice might captivate my mind.
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Love's whole world on us doth wheel.
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Art indeed is long, but life is short.
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No creature loves an empty space;Their bodies measure out their place.
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While thus he threw his Elbow round, Depopulating all the Ground, And, with his whistling Sythe, does cut Each stroke between the Earth and Root, The edged Stele by careless chance Did into his own Ankle glance; And there among the Grass fell down, by his own Sythe, the Mower mown.
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Orange bright,Like golden lamps in a green light.
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But at my back I always hear. Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie. Deserts of vast eternity.
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Casting the body's vest aside,My soul into the boughs does glide.
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...the inglorious arts of peace...