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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/
Through the iron gates of life:/
Thus, though we cannot make our sun/
Stand still, yet we will make him run.