Quotes from Andrew Marvell

Music, the mosaic of the air

But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.

As lines, so love's oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet : But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.

But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.

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-chapt power.

To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one To live in paradise alone.

As lines, so loves oblique may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet. Therefore the love which us doth bind, But Fate so enviously debars, Is the conjunction of the mind, And opposition of the stars.

For Juliana comes, and she, what I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.

My vegetable love will grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.

Like the vain curlings of the watery maze, Which in smooth streams a sinking weight does raise, So Man, declining always, disappears In the weak circles of increasing years; And his short tumults of themselves compose, While flowing Time above his head does close.

What wondrous life in this I lead Ripe apples drop about my head

Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame To wand'ring mowers shows the way, That in the night have lost their aim, And after foolish fires do stray; Your courteous lights in vain you waste, Since Juliana here is come, For she my mind hath so displac'd That I shall never find my home.

And yet I quickly might arrive Where my extended soul is fixt, But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.

If these the Times, then this must be the Man. [Andrew Marvell on Oliver Cromwell]

The same arts that did gain A power, must it maintain.

M? tulbur? atât de tare, încât nu îmi voi mai g?si niciodat? locul.

O, who shall from this dungeon raise A soul enslaved so many ways? With bolts of bones, that fettered stands 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; Tortured, besides each other part, In a vain head and double heart?

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear! Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men; Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude, To this delicious solitude.

What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.

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

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

And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.

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.

As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.