Andrew Marvell

Christian Beck

23 Andrew Marvell

The Coronet

When for the Thorns with which I long, too

With many a piercing wound,

(long My Saviour’s head have crowned,

I seek with garlands to redress that Wrong:

Through every Garden, every mead,

I gather flowers (my fruits are only flow’rs),

Dismantling all the fragrant Towers

That once adorned my Shepherdess’s head.

And now when I have summed up all my store,

Thinking (so I felf deceive)

So rich a chaplet thence to weave

As never yet the King of Glory wore:

Alas, I find the serpent old

That, twining in his fpeckled breaft,

About the flowers disguised does fold,

With wreaths of fame and interest.

Ah, foolifh man, that wouldst debafe with them,

And mortal glory, Heaven’s Diadem!

But Thou who only couldst the serpent tame,

Either his flipp’ry knots at once untie;

And difentangle all his winding Snare;

Or fhatter too with him my curious frame,

And let thefe wither, fo that he may die,

Though set with Skill and chosen out with Care:

That they, while Thou on both their spoils dost tread,

May crown thy Feet, that could not crown thy Head.

Bermudas

When for the remote Bermudas ride

In th’ Oceans bofome unefpy’d,

From a fmall Boat, that row’d along,

The liftning Winds receiv’d this Song.

What fhould we do but fing his Praife

That led us through the watry Maze,

Unto an Ifle fo long unknown,

And yet far kinder than our own?

Where he the huge Sea-Monfters wracks,

That lift the Deep upon their Backs,

He lands us on a graffy Stage;

He gave us this eternal Spring,

Which here enamells every thing;

And Fends the Fowl’s to us in care,

On daily Vifits through the Air.

He hangs in fhades the Orange bright,

Like golden Lamps in a green Night.

And does in the Pomgranates clofe,

Jewels more rich than Ormus fhow’s.

He makes the Figs our mouths to meet;

And throws the Melons at our feet.

But Apples plants of fuch a price,

No Tree could ever beat them twice.

With Cedars, chofen by his hand,

From Lebanon, he ftores the Land.

And makes the hollw Seas, that roar,

Proclaime the Ambergris on fhoar.

He caft (of which we rather boaft)

The Gofpels Pearl upon our Coaft.

And in thefe Rocks for us did frame

A Temple, where to found his Name.

Oh let our Voice his Praife exalt,

Till it arrive at Heavens Vault:

Which thence (perhaps) rebounding, may

Eccho beyond the Mexique Bay.

Thus Fund they in the English boat,

An holy and a chearful Note,

and all the way, to guide their Chime,

With falling Oars they kept the time.

A Dialogue Between
the Soul and Body

SOUL

O who fhall, from this dungeon, raife

A Soul enflav’d so many wayes?

With bolts of bones, that fetter’d ftands

In Feet, and manacled in Hands;

Here blinded with an Eye, and there

Deaf with the drumming of an ear;

A soul hung up, as ’twere, in Chains

Of Nerves, and Arteries, and Veins;

Tortur’d, befides each other part,

In a vain Head, and double Heart.

BODY

O who fhall me deliver whole,

From bonds of this Tyrannic Soul?

Which, ftretcht upright, impales me fo;

That mine own Precipice I go;

And warms and moves this needlefs Frame:

(A Fever could but do the fame)

And, wanting where its fspite to try,

Has made me live to let me die.

A Body that could never reft,

Since this ill Spirit it pofsest.

SOUL

What Magick could me thus confine

Within another’s Grief to pine?

Where whatsoever it complain,

I feel, that cannot feel, the pain;

And all my care its felf employs;

That to preserve which me deftroys;

Constrain’d not only to endure

Difeafes, but, what’s worfe, the Cure;

And ready oft the Port to gain,

Am Shipwrackt into Health again.

BODY

But Phyfick yet could never reach

The Maladies Thou me dost teach;

Whom firft the Cramp of Hope does Tear,

And then the Palfie Shakes of fear;

The Pestilence of Love does heat:

Or Hatred’s hidden Ulcer eat.

Joy’s cheerful Madnefs does perplex:

Or Sorrow’s other Madnefs vex.

Which Knowledge forces me to know;

And Memory will not foregoe.

What but a Soul could have the wit

To build me up for Sin so fit?

So Architects do fquare and hew,

Green Trees that in the Foreft Grew.

The Nymph Complaining
for the Death of Her Fawn

The wanton Troopers riding by

Have fhot my fawn, and it will die.

Ungentle men! they cannot thrive

To kill thee. Thou ne’er didft alive

Them any harm, alas, nor could

Thy death yet do them any good.

I’m sure I never wifh’d them ill,

Nor do I for all this, nor will;

But if my simple Pray’rs may yet

Prevail with Heaven to forget

Thy murder, I will Joyn my Tears

Rather than fail. But oh, my fears!

It cannot dye so. Heaven’s King

Keeps regifter of everything,

And nothing may we ufe in vain.

Ev’n beafts must be with juftice slain,

Else men are made their Deodands;

Though they fhould wafh their guilty hands

In this warm life-blood, which doth part

From thine, and wound me to the Heart,

Yet could they not be clean, their Stain

Is dy’d in such a Purple Grain.

There is not fuch another in

The world to offer for their sin.

Unconstant Sylvio, when yet

I had not found him counterfeit

One morning (I remember well)

Ty’d in this filver chain and bell,

Gave it to me; nay, and I know

What he said then; I’m sure I do.

Said he, “Look how your huntsman here

Hath taught a fawn to hunt his Dear.”

But Sylvio foon had me beguil’d,

This waxed tame, while he grew wild;

And quite regardlefs of my smart,

Left me his Fawn, but took his Heart.

Thenceforth I set myself to play

My folitary time away,

With this, and very well content

Could so mine idle life have fpent;

For it was full of sport, and light

Of foot and heart, and did invite

Me to its game; it feem’d to bless

Itself in me. How could I less

Than love it? Oh, I cannot be

Unkind t’ a Beaft that loveth me.

Had it liv’d long, I do not know

Whether it too might have done so

As Sylvio did; his Gifts might be

Perhaps as falfe or more than he.

But I am fure, for aught that I

Could in fo fhort a time efpie,

Thy Love was far more better then

The love of false and cruel men.

With fweeteft milk and fugar firft

I it at mine own fingers nurft;

And as it grew, fo every day

It wax’d more white and fweet than they.

It had so fweet a Breath! And oft

I blufht to fee its foot more foft

And white,(fhall I fay than my hand?)

NAY any Ladies of the land.

It is a wond’rous thing how fleet

‘Twas on thofe little filver feet;

With what a pretty skipping grace,

It oft would challenge me the Race;

And when ‘thad left me far away,

‘Twould ftay, and run again, and ftay,

For it was nimbler much than Hindes;

And trod, as on the four Winds.

I have a Garden of my own,

But so with Rofes over grown

And Lilies, that you would it guess

To be a little wilderness;

And all the spring time of the year

It only loved to be there.

Among the beds of Lilyes I

Have sought it oft, where it should lie;

Yet could not, till itself would rife,

Find it, although before mine Eyes;

For, in the flaxen lilies’ fhade,

It like a bank of lilies laid.

Upon the Rofes it would feed

Until its Lips ev’n feemed to bleed,

And then to me ‘twould boldly trip

And print thofe Rofes on my Lip.

But all its chief delight was ftill

On roses thus itself to fill,

And its pure virgin Limbs to fold

In whiteft sheets of Lilies cold.

Had it liv’d long it would have been

Lilies without, Rofes within.

O help, O help! I fee it faint,

And die as calmly as a Saint.

See how it weeps! The Tears do come,

Sad, slowly dropping like a Gumme.

So weeps the wounded Balfom,e, so

The holy frankincenfe doth flow,

The brotherless Heliades

Melt in such amber tears as thefe.

I in a golden vial will

Keep thefe two cryftal Tears, and fill

It till it do o’erflow with mine,

Then place it in Diana’s shrine.

Now my Fweet fawn is vanish’d to

Whither the Swans and Turtles go;

In fair Elizium to endure

With milk-white Lambs and Ermines pure.

O do not run too faft: for I

Will but befpeak thy grave, and dye.

Firft my unhappy statue shall

Be cut in marble, and withal

Let it be weeping too; but there

Th’ engraver sure his art may spare,

For I so truly thee bemoan

That I shall weep though I be Stone;

Until my Tears, ftill dropping, wear

My breaft, themfelves engraving there.

There at my feet shalt thou be laid,

Of pureft Alabaster made;

For I would have thine Image be

White as I can, though not as Thee.

To His Coy Mistress

Had we but World enough and time,

This coyness, lady, were no crime.

We would fit down, and think which way

To walk, and pass our long Love’s Day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges‘ fide

Should’ft rubies find; I by the Tide

Of Humber would complain. I would

Love you ten years before the flood,

And you fhould, if you pleafe, refufe

Till the Converfion of the Jews.

My vegetable love fshould grow

Vafter than Empires and more flow;

An hundred years fhould go to praise

Thine eyes, and on thy Forehead Gaze;

Two hundred to adore each Breaft,

But thirty thoufand to the reft;

An Age at leaft to every part,

And the laft age fhould fhow your Heart.

For, Lady, you deserve this State,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear

Time’s wingèd Chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lye

Deserts of vast Eternity.

Thy Beauty fhall no more be found;

Nor, in thy marble Vault, fhall sound

My echoing Song; then Worms fhall try

That long preferv’d Virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to duft,

And into ashes all my Lufst;

The Grave’s a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hew

Sits on thy kin like morning dew,

And while thy willing Soul tranfpires

At every pore with inftant Fires,

Now let us fport us while we may,

And now, like am’rous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour

Than languish in his flow-chapped pow’r.

Let us roll all our Strength and all

Our fweetness up into one Ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough ftrife

Through the iron gates of Life:

Thus, though we cannot make our Sun

Stand ftill, yet we will make him run.

The Definition of Love

My Love is of a birth as rare

As ’tis for object ftrange and high;

It was begotten by defpair

Upon Impoffibility.

Magnanimous Defpair alone

Could show me fo divine a thing

Where feeble Hope could ne’er have flown,

But vainly flapp’d its Tinsel Wing.

And yet I quickly might arrive

Where my extended Soul is fixt,

But Fate does Iron wedges drive,

And always crowds itfelf betwixt.

For Fate with jealous eye does see

Two perfect Loves; nor lets them clofe:

Their union would her ruin be,

And her tyrannic pow’r depofe.

And therefore her Decrees of Steel

Us as the diftant poles have plac’d,

(Though Love’s whole World on us doth wheel)

Not by themfelves to be embrac’d;

Unlefs the giddy Heaven fall,

And earth fome new convulfion tear;

And, us to joyn, the world fhould all

Be cramp’d into a Planisphere.

As Lines fo Loves oblique may well

Themfelves in every Angle greet;

But ours so truly Paralel,

Though infinite, can never meet.

Therefore the Love which us doth bind,

But Fate fo enviously debars,

Is the Conjunction of the Mind,

And Oppofition of the Stars.

The Picture of Little T. C.
in a Prospect of Flowers

See with what fimplicity

This Nimph begins her golden days!

In the green Grafs she loves to lie,

And there with her fair aApect tames

The Wilder flow’rs, and gives them names;

But only with the Rofes plays;

And them does tell

What Colour best becomes them, and what Smell.

Who can foretel for what high caufe

This Darling of the Gods was Born!

Yet this is she whofe chafter Laws

The wanton Love shall one day fear,

And, under her command fevere,

See his Bow broke and enfigns torn.

Happy, who can

Appease this virtuous Enemy of man!

O, then let me in time compound,

And parley with thofe conquering Eyes;

Ere they have tried their force to wound,

Ere, with their glancing wheels, they drive

In triumph over Hearts that ftrive,

And them that yield but more defpise.

Let me be laid,

Where I may fee thy Glories from fome Shade.

Meantime, whilft every verdant thing

Itself does at thy Beauty charm,

Reform the errors of the Spring;

Make that the Tulips may have fhare

Of fsweetness, seeing they are fair;

And Rofes of their thorns difarm:

But moft procure

That Violets may a longer Age endure.

But, O young beauty of the woods,

Whom Nature courts with fruits and flow’rs,

Gather the flowers, but spare the Buds;

Lest Flora angry at thy crime,

To kill her Infants in their prime,

Do quickly make the Example Yours;

And, ere we fee,

Nip in the bloffom all our hopes and Thee.

The Mower Against Gardens

Luxurious man, to bring his Vice in ufe,

Did after him the World feduce:

And from the fields the Flow’rs and Plants allure,

Where nature was moft plain and pure.

He firft enclosed within the Gardens fquare

A dead and standing pool of air:

And a more lufcious earth for them did knead,

Which ftupified them while it fed.

The {ink grew then as double as his Mind;

The nutriment did change the kind.

With ftrange perfumes he did the Rofes taint,

And Flow’rs themfelves were taught to paint.

The Tulip, white, did for complexion seek,

And learn’d to interline its cheek:

Its onion root they then so high did hold;

That one was for a meadow fold.

Another world was fearch’d, through Oceans new,

To find the Marvel of Peru.

And yet thefe Rarities might be allow’d

To man, that fov’raign thing and proud;

Had he not dealt between the Bark and Tree,

Forbidden mixtures there to fee.

No Plant now knew the Stock from which it came;

He grafts upon the Wild the Tame:

That the uncertain and adulterate fruit

Might put the Palate in dispute.

His green Seraglio has its Eunuchs too;

Left any tyrant him out-doe.

And in the Cherry he does Nature vex,

To procreate without a Sex.

‘Tis all enforc’d; the fountain and the Grot;

While the fweet Fields do lye forgot:

Where willing Nature does to all dispense

A wild and fragrant Innocence:

And Fauns and Fairies do the meadows till,

More by their presence than their skill.

Their Statues, polfh’d by fome ancient hand,

May to adorn the Gardens ftand:

But howfoe’er the Figures do excel,

The Gods themfelves with us do dwell.

Damon the Mower

Heark how the Mower Damon sung,

With love of Juliana ftung!

While ev’rything did seem to paint

The Scene more fit for his complaint.

Like her fair Eyes the day was fair;

But fcorching like his am’rous Care.

Sharp like his Sythe his Sorrow was,

And wither’d like his Hopes the Grafs.

Oh what unusual Heats are here,

Which thus our Sun-burn’d Meadows sear!

The Grafs-hopper its pipe gives ore;

And hamftring’d Frogs can dance no more.

But in the brook the green Frog wades;

And Grafshoppers seek out the fhades.

Only the Snake, that kept within,

Now glitters in its fecond skin.

‘This heat the Sun could never raife,

Nor Dog ftar so inflame the dayes.

It from an higher Beauty grow’th,

Which burns the Dields and Mower both:

Which mads the Dog, and makes the Sun

Hotter than his own Phaëton.

Not July causeth thefe Extremes,

But Juliana’s scorching beams.

Tell me where I may pafs the Fires

Of the hot day, or hot desires.

To what cool Cave fhall I defcend,

Or to what gelid Fountain bend?

Alas! I look for Eafe in vain,

When Remedies themfelves complain.

No moifture but my tears do rest,

Nor cold but in her Icy Breaft.

How long wilt Thou, fair Shepherdefs,

Esfeem me, and my Prefents lesf?

To Thee the harmlefs Snake I bring,

Difarmed of its teeth and sting;

To thee Chameleons, changing-hue,

And Oak leaves tipt with hony due.

Yet Thou ungrateful hast not fought

Nor what they are, nor who them brought.

I am the Mower Damon, known

Through all the Meadows I have mown.

On me the morn her dew diftills

Before her darling Daffodils.

And, if at Noon my toil me hear,

The Sun himfelf licks off my Swear.

While, going home, the Ev’ning fweet

In cowslip-water bathes my feet.

What, though the piping Shepherd ftock

The plains with an unnum’red Flock,

This Sithe of mine discovers wide

More ground than all his Sheep do hide.

With this the golden fleece I fhear

Of all thefe Clofes ev’ry Year.

And though in Wooll more poor than they,

Yet am I richer far in Hay.

Nor am I fo deform’d to sight,

If in my scythe I lookèd right;

In which I fee my Picture done,

As in a cresfent Moon the Sun.

The deathlefs Fairyes take me oft

To lead them in their Danfes foft:

And, when I tune my felf to fing,

About me they contract their Ring.

How happy might I ftill have mow’d,

Had not Love here his Thiftles fowed!

But now I all the day complain,

Joyning my Labour to my Pain;

And with my scythe cut down the Grafs,

Yet ftill my Grief is where it was:

But, when the Iron blunter grows,

Sighing, I whet my Sythe and Woes.

While thus he threw his Elbow round,

Depopulating all the Ground,

And, with his whistling Sythe, does cut

Each stroke between the Earth and Root,

The edged Steele by carelefs chance

Did into his own Ankle glance;

And there among the Grafs fell down,

By his own Sythe, the Mower mown.

Alas!’ faid he, thefe hurts are flight

To thofe that die by Love’s defpite.

With Shepherd’s-purfe, and Clown’s-all-heal,

The Blood I ftaunch, and Wound I Feal.

Only for him no Cure is found,

Whom Juliana’s Eyes do wound.

‘Tis death alone that this muft do:

For Death thou art a Mower too.’

The Mower to the
Glowworms

Ye living Lamps, by whofe dear light

The Nightingale does fit so late,

And ftudying all the Summer-night,

Her matchlefs Songs does meditate;

Ye Country Comets, that portend

No War nor Princes funeral,

Shining unto no higher end

Than to prefage the Graffes fall;

Ye Glo-worms, whofe officious Flame

To wandring Mowers fhows the way,

That in the Night have lost their aim,

And after foolish fires do ftray;

Your courteous Lights in vain you waft

Since Juliana here is come,

For She my mind hath so displac’d

That I shall never find my home.

The Mower’s Song

My Mind was once the true furvey

Of all thefe Meadows fresh and gay,

And in the greennefs of the Grafs

Did fee its Hopes as in a Glafs;

When Juliana came, and She