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A study of 3 poems



             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.
             It is significant that, having just transcribed the poem for the purposes of this exercise, I don't know what else to say. The poem is complete. It is love, seduction, foreplay, in forty-six lines.
             For a seventeenth century poem it is also surprisingly modern. How many of today's teenagers try to get their girlfriends into bed with them by saying "you're a long time dead!- - and how much more successful can we imagine this inspired young man.
             The cadence of the poem is seductive. I always feel led on' as if the poet was speaking directly to me - the object of his desire.
             I enjoy the leisure of the opening lines. The description of how he would like to love me - of how I deserve to be loved - is enough to turn a girls head. There is suggestion, innuendo and promise in his adoration of my various "parts- and the slow growing "vegetable- of his love. This is how love should be enjoyed in an ideal world. This is what I am for!.
             But "time's wingëd chariot- paints a different picture. The lonely desolation of the desert, of the grave is all we can look forward to. The notion of worms winning what he has lost clearly dismays my lover. I love the use of the word "quaint- to describe my honour. .
             The final part of the poem celebrates the now and the pleasures available to us.


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