Poetry Sunday 8 February 2015

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We republish Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress” together with Ira Maine’s wonderful comments

“I think any young lady on reading this poem might be persuaded to the belief that the poet only has the girl’s interest at heart.” writes Poetry Editor, Ira Maine.
Make up your own mind after reading the said poem and Ira’s comments below

To His Coy Mistress

BY ANDREW MARVELL

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.
Andrew Marvell (1621-1678) is an odd and interesting man. Born in Yorkshire,  becomes MP for Kingston-on-Hull, friend and secretary to John Milton (who is fiercely anti-monarchy) serves as an MP in Cromwell’s government, and (miraculously) serves again as MP following the Restoration. Pleads successfully for Milton’s life to be spared when he is liable to be executed for his anti-monarchist views. Marvell is famously know as a great survivor and held various important posts until his death in 1678.

‘To His Coy Mistress’ is a poem designed to loosen ladies’ resolve.
The poet, quite rightly begins by agreeing with the lady in question, that coyness was most certainly not a crime. He does add, however, that had we ‘…world enough and time…’ we could of course, take up positions at either ends of our worlds and love each other from a vast distance and over aeons of time.. He tells her that he would love her ‘..ten years before the Flood…’ and she, in her turn, could refuse his advances ‘…Till the conversion of the Jews…’ That is how taken he is with her, how smitten. If there was time his love would grow as slowly as vegetables until that love was ‘…vaster than Empires…’ He would devote at least a hundred years to the praise of her forehead and eyes, and then at least two hundred to adore each breast, and  ‘…but  thirty thousand to the rest…’

And why would he do this?

‘…For Lady, you deserve this State…’  She deserves nothing less than this level of adoration and that he would willingly devote himself to this level of blissful worship…except…

‘…But at my back I always hear

Times winged chariot hurrying near:…’

Sadly there is no time. Our lives are brief and allow no time for the proper business of love because before you know it;

‘…yonder all before us lie,

Desarts of vast Eternitie…’ (Deserts of…)

The emptiness, the bleak landscape of decay and death.

After so brief a period of life, our beauty is dissipated, gone, and is not coming back. Beauty, your beauty will have no place in the tomb, nor will my all too brief love song.

Then will ‘…your quaint Honour turn to dust…’ and the only thing that will breach your maidenhead will be worms!

‘…Then Worms shall try

That long Preserv’d Virginity…’

This is a jolt, a deliberate reminder, a coarse interjection and calculated to remind the girl of how fleeting youth and beauty are, and how they must not be wasted.

She wobbles! She trembles! He turns the screw;

“…The graves a fine and private place,
‘But none I think do there embrace…’

And now the persuasion, the soft and sussurrating warmth, the breathy words…

‘…Now therefore, while the youthful hew

Sits on thy skin like morning dew…’

And every pore is alive with instant fires, let us sport!

Let us , rather than wait in ‘…Time’s slow chapt power…’, let us roll all our strength, all our pleasures all our sweetness up into one glorious ball, and tear our pleasures from the iron gates of life!

Thus though we cannot stop time passing, we’ll give it a hell of a run for it’s money!

I think any young lady on reading this poem might be persuaded  to the belief that the poet only has the girl’s interest at heart.

IRA