To His Coy Mistress

Had we but World enough, and Time,This coyness Lady were no crime.We would sit down, and think which wayTo walk, and pass our long Loves Day.Thou by the Indian Ganges sideShould’st Rubies find; I by the TideOf Humber would complain. I wouldLove you ten years before the Flood:And you should if you please refuseTill the Conversion of the Jews.My vegetable Love should growVaster then Empires, and more slow.An hundred years should go to praiseThine 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 hearTimes winged Charriot hurrying near:And yonder all before us lyeDesarts of vast Eternity.Thy Beauty shall no more be found,Nor, in thy marble Vault, shall soundMy ecchoing Song: then Worms shall tryThat 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 hewSits on thy skin like morning glew,And while thy willing Soul transpiresAt 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 allOur sweetness, up into one Ball:And tear our Pleasures with rough strife,Thorough the Iron gates of Life.Thus, though we cannot make our SunStand still, yet we will make him run.