A riposte to Andrew Marvell

I’ve always loved Andrew Marvell’s lusty poem To His Coy Mistress in which he shamelessly seeks to persuade a young woman to acquiesce to his carnal desires.

But I have also always felt it deserved a response from the young woman’s perspective – especially given it was written in the 17th century long before birth control or feminism – so here goes:

Had we not world enough and time,

This ‘coyness’, dear sir, were still fine.

I would sit down, and think which way

To walk and keep your hands at bay.

I by the Indian Ganges’ side

Shouldst virtue find, you by the tide

Of Humber may complain. You would

Love me three minutes, ‘til my blood

Flowed, if I let myself be used

For your desires, I must refuse.

Your ripe and fruity lust may grow

Vaster than empires and less slow.

An hundred years should go to waste

If your praise meant I was less chaste

You can gaze and adore each breast,

Do not presume to see the rest

Promise an age to every part,

Your groin is talking not your heart.

So, sir, I must protect my fate

Or you would love at lower rate.

For at my back I always hear,

The danger of childbirth hurrying near,

If I were now with you to lie,

I may pass to eternity.

My beauty shall no more be found,

When I am buried in the ground,

Would you feel regret if worms should try

My easily lost virginity,

Or honour others with your lust

While my used body turned to dust;

The grave is not a worthy place

To go because of one embrace.

Thus I’ll preserve my youthful hue,

Which you compare to morning dew,

And while thy willing soul desires,

To take me in your red-hot fires,

I will sport with you while I may,

But wary of becoming prey,

I’ll not be yours to fast devour,

Then be disposed when tasting sour.

So I’ll roll all my strength and all

My sweetness up into one ball,

Forgo pleasures that lead to strife

Construct my iron bars of life,

Thus, though you’ll not give me a son,

Chase me and you shall see me run.