Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress" and her reply...

Yesterday Joan, Marley, and Grace took Cocoa on a walk through the cemetery and while they were there they took pictures of some of the graves.

I was reminded of the poem "To His Coy Mistress" by the Puritan poet Andrew Marvell. The arguments the poet uses to try and persuade his lady are so comical, yet earnest, and at the end of it I always wonder, "Did she give in?" A few weeks ago I found an answer written by an Austalian poet, Alec Derwent Hope.

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 winged 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 preserv'd 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 am'rous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour,

Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.

Let us roll all our strength, and all

Our sweetness, up into one ball;

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Thorough the iron gates of life.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

His Coy Mistress to Mr. Marvell

Since you have world enough and time

Sir, to admonish me in rhyme,

Pray Mr Marvell, can it be

You think to have persuaded me?

Then let me say: you want the art

To woo, much less to win my heart.

The verse was splendid, all admit,

And, sir, you have a pretty wit.

All that indeed your poem lacked

Was logic, modesty, and tact,

Slight faults and ones to which I own,

Your sex is generally prone;

But though you lose your labour, I

Shall not refuse you a reply:

First, for the language you employ:

A term I deprecate is "coy";

The ill-bred miss, the bird-brained Jill,

May simper and be coy at will;

A lady, sir, as you will find,

Keeps counsel, or she speaks her mind,

Means what she says and scorns to fence

And palter with feigned innocence.

The ambiguous "mistress" next you set

Beside this graceless epithet.

"Coy mistress", sir? Who gave you leave

To wear my heart upon your sleeve?

Or to imply, as sure you do,

I had no other choice than you

And must remain upon the shelf

Unless I should bestir myself?

Shall I be moved to love you, pray,

By hints that I must soon decay?

No woman's won by being told

How quickly she is growing old;

Nor will such ploys, when all is said,

Serve to stampede us into bed.

When from pure blackmail, next you move

To bribe or lure me into love,

No less inept, my rhyming friend,

Snared by the means, you miss your end.

"Times winged chariot", and the rest

As poetry may pass the test;

Readers will quote those lines, I trust,

Till you and I and they are dust;

But I, your destined prey, must look

Less at the bait than at the hook,

Nor, when I do, can fail to see

Just what it is you offer me:

Love on the run, a rough embrace

Snatched in the fury of the chase,

The grave before us and the wheels

Of Time's grim chariot at our heels,

While we, like "am'rous birds of prey",

Tear at each other by the way.

To say the least, the scene you paint

Is, what you call my honour, quaint!

And on this point what prompted you

So crudely, and in public too,

To canvass and , indeed, make free

With my entire anatomy?

Poets have licence, I confess,

To speak of ladies in undress;

Thighs, hearts, brows, breasts are well enough,

In verses this is common stuff;

But -- well I ask: to draw attention

To worms in -- what I blush to mention,

And prate of dust upon it too!

Sir, was this any way to woo?

Now therefore, while male self-regard

Sits on your cheek, my hopeful bard,

May I suggest, before we part,

The best way to a woman's heart

Is to be modest, candid, true;

Tell her you love and show you do;

Neither cajole nor condescend

And base the lover on the friend;

Don't bustle her or fuss or snatch:

A suitor looking at his watch

Is not a posture that persuades

Willing, much less reluctant maids.

Remember that she will be stirred

More by the spirit than the word;

For truth and tenderness do more

Than coruscating metaphor.

Had you addressed me in such terms

And prattled less of graves and worms,

I might, who knows, have warmed to you;

But, as things stand, must bid adieu

(Though I am grateful for the rhyme)

And wish you better luck next time.

-- A. D. Hope