To His Coy Mistress

Had we but World enough, and Time,

This coyness Lady were no crime.

We would sit down, and think which

To walk, and pass our long Loves Day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges side.

Should'st Rubies find:

I by the

Of Humber would complain.

I

Love you ten years before the Flood:

And you should if you please

Till the Conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable Love should

Vaster then Empires, and more slow.

An hundred years should go to

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 alwaies

Times winged Charriot hurrying near:

And yonder all before us

Desarts of vast Eternity.

Thy Beauty shall no more be found;

Nor, in thy marble Vault, shall

My ecchoing Song: then Worms shall

That long preserv'd Virginity:

And your quaint Honour turn to durst;

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

Sits on thy skin like morning glew,

And while thy willing Soul

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-chapt pow'r.

Let us roll all our Strength, and

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

Stand still, yet we will make him run.