A Poem That Starts with Timeless Love and Ends with a Glorious Sprint Against the Clock
ABS Believes:
Love is eternal, but your chances aren’t.
Poetry is sometimes just beautifully phrased panic about mortality.
Andrew Marvell: Metaphysical, Mercurial, and Definitely on a Deadline
Marvell was a metaphysical poet, which means he loved deep ideas, wild metaphors, and philosophical pick-up lines. To His Coy Mistress is one of literature’s most charming ultimatums—a poetic proposal that blends romance, physics, worms, and mild existential dread.
The goal? Convince the lady to stop being coy.
The method? Poetic manipulation, cosmic imagery, and just a pinch of carpe diem panic.
The Poem: Three Parts, One Purpose, Infinite Persuasion
Part I: If We Had All the Time in the World…
“Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.”
Translation: If we had eternity, your ‘let’s take it slow’ would be adorable.
But we don’t. So… let’s speed things up.
“Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find…”
He imagines her treasure-hunting in India, casually being divine and distant.
“I by the tide
Of Humber would complain.”
Meanwhile, he’s in England whining poetically. Classic long-distance emotional imbalance.
“An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes…”
One hundred years just for her eyes. Two hundred for her breasts. Thirty thousand for everything else.
Modern interpretation:
If Tinder let me swipe for eternity, I’d match you first and praise you till the sun exploded.
Part II: But Time, That Rude Interruptor…
Now the mood shifts. The sun is setting. The calendar is catching up.
Welcome to gothic romance with a side of mortality.
“But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near…”
Translation: We’re all being chased by an invisible Uber called death. And it’s not stopping.
“Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song…”
Romantic! He’s reminding her that in the grave, makeup won’t matter and no one hears poetry.
“The worms shall try
That long preserv’d virginity…”
Oh yes, he went there. Marvell makes a left turn into mild horror to argue that modesty has an expiry date.
Part III: So Let’s Love Now—Violently, Poetically, Brilliantly
“Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am’rous birds of prey…”
The tone pivots again: from polite praise, to death dread, to metaphysical Netflix and chill. The urgency becomes rapture.
“Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapp’d power.”
Let’s not wait for Time to chew us slowly—let’s eat the clock ourselves. Carnivorous love! Gourmet mortality!
“Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.”
Mic. Drop.
Modern interpretation:
We can’t stop the sun from setting, but we can dance so wildly it trips trying to keep up.
The Art of the Persuasive Panic Poem
What makes To His Coy Mistress brilliant isn’t just the seduction—it’s the structure. Marvell builds a cosmic timeline, crashes it with mortality, then ends with burning brilliance. He doesn’t just say “time is short.” He makes you feel the sand slipping.
It’s passionate. It’s intellectual. It’s desperate—in the best-dressed way possible.
Witty Observations and Sarcastic Deductions
“An hundred years should go to praise…”
Sure. Until she ghosts in century two.
“Time’s wingèd chariot…”
Coming soon: Death Uber XL. No refund.
“The worms shall try…”
Romantic poetry, now in horror movie format.
“Let us sport us…”
Translation: Live fast, love hard, wear metaphors.
“We cannot make our sun / Stand still…”
But we can make every second sweat.
Why This Poem Still Works in the Age of Swipe and Ghost
Because people still waste time thinking they have time.
Because love still has deadlines (even with emojis).
Because poetic urgency feels more romantic than real-life rush.
And because metaphysical seduction, when done well, never expires.
The Literary Scholar folds the scroll just as the sun tips its hat and rushes onward, knowing Marvell’s lovers are still running joyfully in its fading glow.
Signed,
The Literary Scholar
Where time is short, but metaphor is forever
Where love burns bright, brief, and beautifully absurd
Share this post / Spread the witty word / Let the echo wander / Bookmark the brilliance