To His Coy Mistress

Had we however world enough and time,

This demureness, woman, were no wrongdoing.

We would plunk down, and think what direction

To walk, and pass our long love's day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges' side

Shouldst rubies discover; I by the tide

Of Humber would whine. I would

Love you ten years before the flood,

Furthermore, you should, in the event that you it would be ideal if you deny

Till the transformation of the Jews.

My vegetable love ought to develop

Vaster than domains and all the more moderate;

A hundred years ought to go to laud

Thine eyes, and on thy brow look;

200 to worship each bosom,

Yet, thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at any rate to each part,

Furthermore, the last age should show your heart.

For, woman, you merit this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

Be that as it may, at my back I generally hear

Time's wingèd chariot rushing close;

What's more, there all before us lie

Deserts of huge time everlasting.

Thy magnificence will no more be found;

Nor, in thy marble vault, will sound

My resounding melody; at that point worms will attempt

That since a long time ago safeguarded virginity,

Also, your interesting honor go to tidy,

What's more, into cinders all my desire;

The grave's a fine and private spot,

Be that as it may, none, I think, do there grasp.

Presently subsequently, while the young shade

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And keeping in mind that thy willing soul comes to pass

At each pore with moment fires,

Presently let us sport us while we may,

Also, presently, as affectionate feathered creatures of prey,

Or maybe on the double our time eat up

Than mull in his moderate dried out power.

Give us a chance to move everything that is in us what not

Our sweetness up into one ball,

What's more, tear our joys with harsh difficulty

Through the iron doors of life:

Along these lines, however we can't make our sun

Stop, yet we will make him run.