The Poetical Works of Andrew Marvell: With a Memoir of the Author

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Little, Brown, 1857 - English poetry - 335 pages

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Page 117 - What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Page 53 - 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 Should'st 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...
Page 116 - So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name: Little, alas! they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed!
Page 40 - He makes the figs our mouths to meet And throws the melons at our feet; But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars chosen by His hand From Lebanon He stores the land ; And makes the hollow seas that roar Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
Page 135 - Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room Where greater Spirits come. What field of all the Civil...
Page 106 - Well might'st thou scorn thy readers to allure With tinkling rime, of thy own sense secure ; While the Town-Bayes writes all the while and spells, And, like a pack-horse, tires without his bells. Their fancies like our bushy points appear ; The poets tag them, we for fashion wear.
Page 136 - That thence the royal actor borne, The tragic scaffold might adorn, While round the armed bands, Did clap their bloody hands. He nothing common did, or mean, Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try ; Nor call'd the gods with vulgar spite To vindicate his helpless right, But bow'd his comely head Down, as upon a bed.
Page 115 - So the soul, that drop, that ray Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Could it within the human flower be seen, Remembering still its former height, Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green; And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express The greater heaven in an heaven less.
Page 137 - A Kingdom for his first year's rents, And (what he may) forbears His fame, to make it theirs : And has his sword and spoils ungirt To lay them at the Public's skirt.
Page 116 - While all flowers and all trees do close To weave the garlands of repose! Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men.

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