Poems, by Andrew Marvell



You, that decipher out the Fate

Of humane Off-springs from the Skies,

What mean these Infants which of late

Spring from the Starrs of Chlora’s Eyes?


Her Eyes confus’d, and doubled ore,

With Tears suspended ere they flow;

Seem bending upwards, to restore

To Heaven, whence it came, their Woe:


When, molding off the watry Sphears,

Slow drops unty themselves away;

As if she, with those precious Tears,

Would strow the ground where Strephon lay.


Yet some affirm, pretending Art,

Her Eyes have so her Bosome drown’d,

Only to soften near her Heart

A place to fix another Wound.


And, while vain Pomp does her restrain

Within her solitary Bowr,

She courts her self in am’rous Rain;

Her self both Danae and the Showr.


Nay others, bolder, hence esteem

Joy now so much her Master grown,

That whatsoever does but seem

Like Grief, is from her Windows thrown.


Nor that she payes, while she survives,

To her dead Love this Tribute due;

But casts abroad these Donatives,

At the installing of a new.


How wide they dream! The Indian Slaves

That sink for Pearl through Seas profound,

Would find her Tears yet deeper Waves

And not of one the bottom sound.


I yet my silent Judgment keep,

Disputing not what they believe:

But sure as oft as Women weep,

It is to be suppos’d they grieve.


Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:58