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Stand still, yet we will make him run.
The grave’s a fine and private place,
Love you ten years before the flood,
Two hundred to adore each breast,
Deserts of vast eternity.
We would sit down, and think which way
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
Nor would I love at lower rate.
My echoing song; then worms shall try
An age at least to every part,
And you should, if you please, refuse
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
At every pore with instant fires,
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
Had we but world enough and time,
And into ashes all my lust;
Now let us sport us while we may,
Of Humber would complain. I would
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
But at my back I always hear
Rather at once our time devour
An hundred years should go to praise
My vegetable love should grow
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
And while thy willing soul transpires
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Vaster than empires and more slow;
Our sweetness up into one ball,
Through the iron gates of life:
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Let us roll all our strength and all
That long-preserved virginity,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
Till the conversion of the Jews.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
And the last age should show your heart.
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
And yonder all before us lie
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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.