1 66 ANDREW MARVELL 



Little, alas ! they know or heed, 

 How far these beauties her's exceed ! 

 Fair trees ! wheres'ere your barkes I wound, 

 No name shall but your own be found. 



When we have run our passions' heat, 

 Love hither makes his best retreat. 

 The gods, who mortal beauty chase, 

 Still in a tree did end their race ; 

 Apollo hunted Daphne so, 

 Only that she might laurel grow ; 

 And Pan did after Syrinx speed, 

 Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 



What wond'rous life is this I lead ! 

 Ripe apples drop about my head ; 

 The luscious clusters of the vine 

 Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; 

 The nectaren and curious peach, 

 Into my hands themselves do reach ; 

 Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 

 Insnar'd with flow'rs, I fall on grass. 

 I 



Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, 

 Withdraws into its happiness : 



