Poems by Andrew Marvell

MY Love is of a birth as rare
As 'tis, for object, strange and high;
It was begotten by Desp...

Ye living Lamps, by whose dear light
The Nightingale does sit so late,
And studying all the S...

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and...