Andrew Marvell
An Epitaph
ENOUGH; and leave the rest to Fame! ‘Tis to commend her, but to name. Courtship which, living, she declined, When dead, to offer were unkind: Nor can the truest wit, or friend, Without detracting,
A Garden, Written after the Civil Wars
SEE how the flowers, as at parade, Under their colours stand display’d: Each regiment in order grows, That of the tulip, pink, and rose. But when the vigilant patrol Of stars walks round about
Last Instructions to a Painter
After two sittings, now our Lady State To end her picture does the third time wait. But ere thou fall’st to work, first, Painter, see If’t ben’t too slight grown or too hard for
The Garden
How vainly men themselves amaze To win the Palm, the Oke, or Bayes; And their uncessant Labours see Crown’d from some single Herb or Tree, Whose short and narrow verged Shade Does prudently their
On Mr. Milton's Paradise Lost
When I beheld the Poet blind, yet bold, In slender Book his vast Design unfold, Messiah Crown’d, Gods Reconcil’d Decree, Rebelling Angels, the Forbidden Tree, Heav’n, Hell, Earth, Chaos, All; the Argument Held me
The Coronet
When for the Thorns with which I long, too long, With many a piercing wound, My Saviours head have crown’d, I seek with Garlands to redress that Wrong: Through every Garden, every Mead, I
The Mower To The Glo-Worms
Ye living Lamps, by whose dear light The Nightingale does sit so late, And studying all the Summer-night, Her matchless Songs does meditate; Ye Country Comets, that portend No War, nor Princes funeral, Shining
The Picture Of Little T. C. In A Prospect Of Flowers
See with what simplicity This Nimph begins her golden daies! In the green Grass she loves to lie, And there with her fair Aspect tames The Wilder flow’rs, and gives them names: But only
Damon The Mower
Heark how the Mower Damon Sung, With love of Juliana stung! While ev’ry thing did seem to paint The Scene more fit for his complaint. Like her fair Eyes the day was fair; But
Mourning
You, that decipher out the Fate Of humane Off-springs from the Skies, What mean these Infants which of late Spring from the Starrs of Chlora’s Eyes? Her Eyes confus’d, and doubled ore, With Tears
To His Noble Friend, Mr. Richard Lovelace, Upon His Poems
Sir, Our times are much degenerate from those Which your sweet muse with your fair fortune chose, And as complexions alter with the climes, Our wits have drawn the infection of our times. That
The Mower Against Gardens
Luxurious Man, to bring his Vice in use, Did after him the World seduce: And from the Fields the Flow’rs and Plants allure, Where Nature was most plain and pure. He first enclos’d within
Cromwell's Return
An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell’s Return From Ireland The forward youth that would appear Must now forsake his muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing, His numbers languishing. ‘Tis time to leave the books
First Anniversary
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
To Christina, Queen of Sweden
Verses to accompany a portrait of Cromwell Bright Martial Maid, Queen of the frozen zone, The northern pole supports thy shining throne. Behold what furrows age and steel can plough; The helmet’s weight oppressed