FOREWORD: Transposition of Andrew Marvell's 'persuasive' poem 'To His Coy Mistress'. (Appears for comparative reasons only.)

TO HIS SHY GIRLFRIEND
(Inspired by Andrew Marvell’s ‘To His Coy Mistress’)

Had we the time to drink all these pints,
Your shyness, my Love, would fail to confine
The hour we sip, discussing the day
We finally kiss in more meaningful ways…
And should you decide, with another, to share
The pleasure I’ll miss, go ahead – But I swear
I will carry on loving, long after the pub
Refuses to serve me, for drinking too much…
Spent weekends recalling the shade of your eyes,
The scent of your hair, and the body that shies –
Spent months adoring the curve of each breast,
Promising years to admire the rest.
Spent decades to gather the courage to start,
But only the world to conquer your heart.
For you, my Love, you know I would wait,
And wait – and wait – no matter how late –
But Time stops for no one, especially here,
In spite of the infinite bottles of beer,
Whose lonely abyss may cradle forever
Far longer than love can hold us together.
Your beauty’s unique; no more shall be found,
When beauty’s the same, confined underground,
Ravaged by maggots, and battered by dirt
Claiming to cherish a Virgin preserved.
Gone are your charms, and the flame of romance,
For stunting the growth of my love in advance!
Bet you’ll agree that a grave’s the best place
To hide how you miss a living embrace.
So, while we are young and full of desire,
Let’s raise up the sun before we retire!

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