This is one of my favourite poems and I publish it here for no reason other than to enrich the lives of those who through no fault of their own may be working class and may thus have attended schools where poetry was confined to the walls of the 'conveniences'.


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-chapt 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.


Andrew Marvell. 1621–1678


It is clear that the author wishes to use his rod upon the lady and thus the poem is ideally suited to our little CP site.

Andrew Marvell – don’t-cha just love him! He can use his rod on me any time. Hey, what about writing for us, Andy? Our working-class punters could do with a bit of the old metaphysical while they’re filling their baths with coal!

Andrew Marvell – ain’t-cha sick of him! He’s no marvel when he complains about the Humber. Get real, Andy! Don’t-cha know that Ron has lived by the Humber for years! And does he complain? No, sir – he just gets on with it, a-lecturin’ and a lechin’ all over Cleethorpes

Too damn right! And I've never condemned Andrew Marvell for his unfortunate connection with the region. In the end all the poor sod got for his career as a metaphysical wordsmith was to have a school in Hull named after him. Wouldn't you just curl up in embarrassment?

A man keen to use his rod?

Immortalised by a school in Hull?

Stressing that were anything but immutable?

Spooky!

Bad enough it be that impotent Yorkie vole away with one's work, but to be victim of inept Brummie is ignominy grand - Inclination for me indeed!

I know I am thick compared with all you actors, lawyers, vicars, university lecturers, holidaymakers in Worthing, advertising managers, members of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, lounge lizards, ageing drama students and journalists that come on here, but can anyone tell me what the above message from Abraham Cowley is all about?

Abraham Cowley, who died in 1667, is writing about the gentle awareness of the unifying oneness. In simple terms, he is saying that unless that silly sod Sue Moron refrains from sending messages about the Duke of Northumberland, he will be evicted from our happy bleeding circle.

A programme devoted to this poem is being broadcast on BBC Radio4 at 23.30 today.