To His Coy Mistress Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, lady, were crime.
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To His Coy Mistress Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, lady, were crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and spend our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find; I would complain about the tide of Humber. I would Love you ten years before the flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My love vegetable should grow Vaster than empires and more slowly; A hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on your forehead gauze; 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 lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in your marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity, And your quaint honor turns 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 your skin like morning dew, And while your willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like loving 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, although we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.