ANDREW MARVELL

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 preserved 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 tliy 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 Thorough the iron gates of life : Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run. slow-chapt] slow-jawed, slowly devouring.

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