To His Coy Mistress

585

Sure he that loves his lady 'cause she's fair,
Delights his eye, so loves himself, not her.
Something there is moves me to love, and I
Do know I love, but know not how, nor why.
Alexander Brome [1620-1666]

TO HIS COY MISTRESS

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
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

heart.

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 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.

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
Through the iron gates of life:

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

Andrew Marvell [1621-1678]

A DEPOSITION FROM BEAUTY

THOUGH When I loved thee thou wert fair,

Thou art no longer so;

These glories all the pride they wear

Unto opinion owe.

Beauties, like stars, in borrowed luster shine;
And 'twas my love that gave thee thine.

The flames that dwelt within thine eye

Do now with mine expire;

Thy brightest graces fade and die

At once with my desire.

Love's fires thus mutual influence return;
Thine cease to shine, when mine to burn.

Then, proud Celinda, hope no more
To be implored or wooed,

Since by thy scorn thou dost restore
Thy wealth my love bestowed:

And thy despised disdain too late shall find

That none are fair but who are kind.

Thomas Stanley [1625-1678]

To Celia

"LOVE IN THY YOUTH, FAIR MAID"

LOVE in thy youth, fair maid, be wise,
Old Time will make thee colder,
And though each morning new arise,
Yet we each day grow older.

Thou as heaven art fair and young,
Thine eyes like twin stars shining;
But ere another day be sprung,
All these will be declining;

Then winter comes with all his fears,
And all thy sweets shall borrow;

Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears,

And I, too late, shall sorrow.

587

Unknown

TO CELIA

WHEN, Celia, must my old day set,

And my young morning rise
In beams of joy so bright as yet
Ne'er blessed a lover's eyes?

My state is more advanced than when

I first attempted thee:

I sued to be a servant then,

But now to be made free.

I've served my time faithful and true,

Expecting to be placed

In happy freedom, as my due,

To all the joys thou hast:
Ill husbandry in love is such

A scandal to love's power,

We ought not to misspend so much
As one poor short-lived hour.

Yet think not, sweet, I'm weary grown,
That I pretend such haste;

Since none to surfeit e'er was known

Before he had a taste:

My infant love could humbly wait
When, young, it scarce knew how
To plead; but grown to man's estate,
He is impatient now.

Charles Cotton [1630 -1687]

TO CELIA

Nor, Celia, that I juster am

Or better than the rest!

For I would change each hour, like them,
Were not my heart at rest.

But I am tied to very thee
By every thought I have;
Thy face I only care to see,
Thy heart I only crave.

All that in woman is adored
In thy dear self I find-

For the whole sex can but afford
The handsome and the kind.

Why then should I seek further store,
And still make love anew?

When change itself can give no more,

'Tis easy to be true!

Charles Sedley [1639 -1701]

A SONG

My dear mistress has a heart

Soft as those kind looks she gave me;

When with love's resistless art,

And her eyes, she did enslave me.

But her constancy's so weak,

She's so wild and apt to wander, That my jealous heart would break Should we live one day asunder.

Constancy

Melting joys about her move,
Killing pleasures, wounding blisses;
She can dress her eyes in love,

And her lips can arm with kisses.
Angels listen when she speaks;

She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; But my jealous heart would break

Should we live one day asunder.

589

John Wilmot [1647-1680]

LOVE AND LIFE

ALL my past life is mine no more;
The flying hours are gone,
Like transitory dreams given o'er,
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.

The time that is to come is not;
How can it then be mine?
The present moment's all my lot;
And that, as fast as it is got,
Phillis, is only thine.

Then talk not of inconstancy,

False hearts, and broken vows;

If I by miracle can be

This live-long minute true to thee,

'Tis all that Heaven allows.

John Wilmot [1647-1680]

CONSTANCY

I CANNOT change as others do,

Though you unjustly scorn;

Since that poor swain that sighs for you

For you alone was born.

No, Phillis, no; your heart to move

A surer way I'll try;

And, to revenge my slighted love,

Will still love on and die.