TO HIS COY MISTRESS 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 vegetable Love should grow Vaster than Empires and more slow. An hundred years should go to praise 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 always hear Time’s winged Chariot hurrying near: And yonder all before us lye Desarts 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 hew Sits on thy 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 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 all Our sweetness, up into one Ball: And tear our Pleasures with rough strife, Through the Iron gates of Life: Thus, though we cannot make our Sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.