Poetry: Brevity of a Woman's Life: To His Coy Mistress
god, women. So short a life.
so i was just watching some YouTube videos of Taiwan TV shows of 1990s. There's this lady singing live, recorded in 1994. I marveled at her beauty. A tumble on YouTube showed another episode of the same TV show, featuring the same lady as guest, but few years later. I wanted to marvel of the same marvel, but alas, little attraction is to be found.
women, at 20, and at 30, is a big difference.
though, the decorum of society is never to utter this. Because, it'd be crass. Rather, you can say it by poetry.
now, i shall, witness, this eternal one:
[ To His Coy Mistress ] [ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/To_His_Coy_Mistress ] by [ Andrew Marvell ] [ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andrew_Marvell ] (1621 to 1678)
To His Coy Mistress 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 wing'd 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 Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.