Poem of the Week – To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell
Metaphysical poetry was a term coined by Dr Johnson. It is a definition that has provoked many disagreements among scholars with regard to whom the description applies. To TS Eliot, it meant a “dissociation of sensibilities”, a separation of thoughtful expression from the experienced feelings that inspired the composition. To critics like Eliot, metaphysical poetry is often characterised by a sophisticated use and development of conceits and metaphors and a shunning of lyricism in favour of rhetoric. It is a loose explanation that has galvanised little consensus but it does elucidate some of the qualities of this week’s poet, Andrew Marvell.
Alongside Henry Vaughan, John Donne and George Herbert, Andrew Marvell is deemed exemplary. Marvell lived during the tumultuous Civil War era when radical philosophies were being fought out on battlefields across Britain, and ancient certainties regarding the conduct and possession of power were being transformed forever. Though this week’s poem has little to do with the horrifying context in which it was conceived, To His Coy Mistress is perhaps Marvell’s most famous and often quoted. It was reportedly written while the author worked as a tutor to the daughter of Parliamentary commander, Sir Thomas Fairfax.
The poem shows how beautifully private affections can blossom in a time of public crisis. The speaker of the poem addresses a woman he loves and asserts that if nature allowed a longer life for man, he would spend his centuries adoring and cherishing her beauty and assiduously exploring the possibilities of their love. We hope you enjoy this week’s poem as much as we did.
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
Shouldst 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 wingèd 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 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 amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
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.
Enjoyed this poem by Andrew Marvell? Read the rest of the Poem of the Week archive here.