Andrew Marvell Quotes

Mă tulbură atât de tare, încât nu îmi voi mai găsi niciodată locul.

Had we but world enough, and time

But Fate does iron wedges drive,
And always crowds itself betwixt.

But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near

Popery is such a thing as cannot, but for want of a word to express it, be called a religion; nor is it to be mentioned with that civility which is otherwise decent to be used in speaking about the differences of human opinion about divine matters...There has now for divers years a design been carried on, to change the lawful government of England into an absolute tyranny, and to convert the established Protestant religion into downright Popery...If under his present Majesty we have as yet seen no more visible effects of the same spirit than the firing of London...it is not to be attributed to the good nature or better principles of that sect, but to the wisdom of his Holiness, who observes that we are not of late so dangerous Protestants as to deserve any special mark of his indignation, but that we may be made better use of to the wrecking of those that are of our religion, and that if he do not disturb us, there are those amongst ourselves that are leading us into a fair way of reconciliation with him.

The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

If these the Times, then this must be the Man.

[Andrew Marvell on Oliver Cromwell]

Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,
But with his keener eye
The axe's edge did try.

Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame
To wand’ring mowers shows the way,
That in the night have lost their aim,
And after foolish fires do stray;

Your courteous lights in vain you waste,
Since Juliana here is come,
For she my mind hath so displac’d
That I shall never find my home.

She with her eyes my heart does bind, She with her voice might captivate my mind.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear!
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men;
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow.
Society is all but rude,
To this delicious solitude.

Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.

As lines, so love's oblique, may well
Themselves in every angle greet :
But ours, so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.

Where the remote Bermudas ride,
In th' ocean's bosom unespied.