To His Coy Mistress

 This is a Carpe Diem poem!


 To His Coy Mistress is a metaphysical poem written by the British author and statesman Andrew Marvell (1621–1678) either during or just before the Interregnum.

Marvell probably wrote the poem prior to serving in Oliver Cromwell's government as a minister. The poem was not published in his lifetime.

Synopsis

The speaker of the poem addresses a woman who has been slow to respond to his sexual advances. In the first stanza he describes how he would love her if they had an unlimited amount of time. He could spend centuries admiring each part of her body and her refusal to comply would not faze him. In the second stanza, he remembers how short human life is. Once it is over, the opportunity to enjoy each other is gone because no one embraces in the grave. In the last stanza, the speaker urges the woman to comply, arguing that in loving each other with passion they will make the most of the short time they have to live.

Structure

The poem is written in iambic tetrameter and rhymes in couplets. The first stanza ("Had we...") is ten couplets long, the second ("But...") six, and the third ("Now therefore...") seven. The logical form of the poem runs: if... but... therefore...

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 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.

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 am'rous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour,

Than languish in his slow-chapp'd 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.

Source: wikipedia