Quotes from Andrew Marvell

So much one man can do that does both act and know.

Music, the mosaic of the air.

Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.

Though I carry always some ill-nature about me, yet it is, I hope, no more than is in this world necessary for a preservative.

Art indeed is long, but life is short.

He nothing common did or meanUpon that memorable scene,But with his keener eyeThe axe's edge did try.

Casting the body's vest aside,My soul into the boughs does glide.

Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.

Annihilating all that's madeTo a green thought in a green shade.

Then worms shall tryThat long preserved virginity,And your quaint honor turn to dust,And into ashes all my lust.The grave's a fine and private place,But none, I think, do there embrace.

But at my back I always hearTime's winged chariot hurrying near;And yonder all before us lieDeserts of vast eternity.

And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.

Had we but world enough, and time,This coyness, lady, were no crime.

He hangs in shades the orange bright,Like golden lamps in a green night.

Where the remote Bermudas ride,In th' ocean's bosom unespied.

So much one man can do,That does both act and know.

The inglorious arts of peace.

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 than empires, and more slow.

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 Loves Day.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near

My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.

The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.

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.