Oh, well, good news, coyness and not sleeping
with you still aren’t criminal acts,
last time I checked, my man. So
I’m not too worried about that. Feel
like I’ve tried to say this nicely,
but that never works, so let’s try
something else: had I the world and time,
sitting by the river and listening to
you as you try to seduce me would not
be on the top of my list.
I’ve seen weeds sprawl across a garden
and shoot green fingers up the walls
I don’t want an empire of grassy love
growing at me.
Your vegetable love would spoil.
If I get thirty thousand years, I won’t
spend them listening to you describe
my own body to me. (I already know
what it looks like.)
Look, I’m afraid of death, too
But that’s hardly a solid jumping-off point
for sexual negotiations, my vegetal love.
Your dick is not an alternative to the grave.
Fear is not a sufficient cause for defloration.
I’m sorry we can’t fuck in the afterlife,
but you’re not the one who can die in childbirth,
you know what I mean? Of the risks
we’re running, I’d say I’ve got more skin in the game.
Anyhow.
Hawks don’t eat time, or each other.
I’m going to get old whether I fuck you or not.
Chase the sun all you want, I’m still never
having sex with your herbaceous ass.
Tags: andrew marvell, coy mistresses, poetry, your dick is not an alternative to the grave
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I want business cards with “Your Dick Is Not An Alternative To The Grave” printed on them.
I want a t-shirt.
I’ll add it to the list of throw pillows I need to make.
Similarly, The Passionate Shepherd to His Love, and the actual poem Marlowe wrote in response:
The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.
Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields,
To wayward winter reckoning yields,
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten:
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and Ivy buds,
The Coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
I initially read this line as “Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy poses,” which would have been both a tighter rhyme and an excellent burn.
This just furthers my hypothesis that were he alive today, Marlowe would spend 80% of his time trolling on Twitter.
80% seems low.
And somewhat less classily, the response to the famous “Daisy Bell (Bicycle Built for Two)” song:
Harry, Harry, here is my answer true
You’re all crazy if you think I would marry you.
If you can’t afford a carriage,
You can’t afford a marriage.
And I’ll be damned if I’ll be crammed
On a bicycle built for two.
My grandma used to sing Daisy Daisy in the bath. LOVE that response?
Hahaha, I was singing that all through the Agents of SHIELD season finale last night (which heavily featured “Daisy Bell” — it’s a whole thing), though I know slightly different words. We learned it with “Michael” in grade school and rather tormented a boy in our class with it, I’m afraid.
I know the ‘Michael’ version too. It goes
Michael Michael, here is my answer true
I’ll not cycle, on a bicycle built for two.
If you can’t afford a carriage
There’ll BE no BLOOMING marriage.
For I’ll be DAMNED if I’ll be CRAMMED
on a bicycle built for two.
My dad used to sing it to me, with that emphasis, and it was clear he enjoyed the second verse MUCH more than the first. I mean, look at that rocking internal rhyme like there!
Now I’m thinking about it, I’m remembering that he also claimed to have come up with one of the verses to the meatball song. I mean, it’s possible right?
I know it with “I’d rather be switched, than to be hitched” but I did learn it from my 3rd grade music teacher so he probably wasn’t going to whip out the big swear words in front of us, haha.
This so reminded me of these poems, too! I teach “The Passionate Shepherd” and “The Nymph’s Reply” to my high school girls every year, and they always are so impressed when they figure out that Marlowe is directly replying to Ralegh, and doing so through the medium of contemptuous poetry. Their favorite line is usually when the nymph points out that sitting around all day on rocks isn’t her idea of a good time. They also take this as proof that women are a lot more practical about love, and as further proof that we are the superior sex. I do nothing to dissuade them from their misandry.
Teaching “To His Coy Mistress” to high school sophomores is always a fun time, especially when they get to the part about the worms. There’s always a “Wait, so he is saying that the worms are going to like…take her virginity….like, I mean, you know, do IT with her? Like when she’s dead? Cause that’s messed up!” moment, where I make a mental note to never, ever teach this poem again. (But then I forget all about my mental note, and begin the whole cycle anew).
I once replied “if all the world and love were young” to a man who, without prelude, asked me to have sex with him, and he looked very confused and it was a great moment for me.
Swaps! Marlowe wrote as the shepherd, Raleigh came back with the burns. I know, because I liked this enough to copy it out and checked for the date.
God, I’m so sad I’m not in high school English anymore and can’t bring this for discussion and make it all uncomfortable.
oh, that’s a serious regret now. my curmudgeonly English teacher and i got along awesomely even though i was always making the class discussion uncomfortable.
The good news for me is that I TEACH high school English and can bring this for discussion and make it all uncomfortable!
I actually had to “teach” this poem in my senior English class, and the most interesting comment I got from the “advanced placement” audience was someone’s lingering confusion over whether or not his “coy” mistress was a fish. This would have made the discussion so much better (not that it could have gotten much worse).
YOUR HERBACEOUS ASS <3 <3 <3 (you can conveniently shorten it to “you” for everyday epithet use)
Hahaha!! Finally. I choose the worms.
I remember, quite vividly, that one of my college professors pointed out that the talk of “vegetable love” and worms trying the mistress’s virginity was not unlike modern tentacle porn.
That being said I’ll never not love sweaty otaku Andrew Marvell.
I love that image of him. Thank you.
Andy Marvell, what a marvel.
Actual portrait of the poet:
100% accurate
Robert Herrick has that covered, too:
The Vine
I dreamed this mortal part of mine
Was metamorphosed to a vine,
Which crawling one and every way
Enthralled my dainty Lucia.
Methought her long small legs and thighs
I with my tendrils did surprise;
Her belly, buttocks, and her waist
By my soft nervelets were embraced.
About her head I writhing hung,
And with rich clusters (hid among
The leaves) her temples I behung,
So that my Lucia seemed to me
Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.
My curls about her neck did crawl,
And arms and hands they did enthrall,
So that she could not freely stir
(All parts there made one prisoner).
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts which maids keep unespied,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took
That with the fancy I awoke;
And found (ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a stock than like a vine.
My desire to reply with a gif of Lorelai Gilmore saying “Dirty!” was outweighed only by my fear that IT would tell my boss I was searching for “dirty gifs” on the job. So you’ll just have to imagine the gif yourself.
Said professor, who BTW was amazing and not some kind of pervert like I’m making her sound!, basically took a moment in class to emphasize YOU REALIZE WHAT THE TWO LAST LINES MEAN. BONERS. HE’S TALKING ABOUT BONERS.
Good LORD.
Is this another example of dudes thinking everyone needs to know everything that runs through their heads?
D: D: D:
Can we all agree to have a moratorium on poems written about the poet’s own dick? NO MORE DICK POEMS, ok? We’re full. Quota reached.
You just know these guys would be sending dick pics if only they’d had smartphones back then.
But plenty more of these:
VAGINA SONNET’ – Joan Larkin
Is ‘vagina’ suitable for use in a sonnet? I don’t suppose so.
A famous poet told me, ‘Vagina’s ugly.’
Meaning, of course, the sound of it. In poems.
Meanwhile he inserts his penis frequently
into his verse, calling it, seriously, ‘My
Penis’. It is short, I know, and dignified.
I mean of course the sound of it. In poems.
This whole thing is unfortunate, but petty,
like my hangup concerning English Dept memos
headed ‘Mr/Mrs/Miss’ – only a fishbone
In the throat of the revolution –
a waste of brains – to be concerned about
this minor issue of my cunt’s good name.
Thanks for posting this, it’s a particular favourite of mine. You inspired me to take Joan Larkin’s collection Housework off the shelf and re-read it.
This makes me extremely happy. That is all.
YOUR DICK IS NOT AN ALTERNATIVE TO THE GRAVE.
thank u Mallory, my love, for providing me with a phrase to tattoo within a ribbon on my left bicep.
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity
So in Marvell’s time, virginity rhymed with try? Virgini-tie? *shudder*
According to the Globe’s Original Pronunciation, English then sounded a lot more like a Scottish burr, so the worms shall trae her virgini-tae.
I thought it was a weird diphthong that we don’t really have anywhere – sort of combining “uh” with “-y”, but very quickly. Or is that what the Scottish “ae” actually sounds like?
And “move” rhymed with “love”, as in the Marlowe poem posted above.
As in “muv” or “loove”? I want to believe it’s “loove.”
“Loouve”
Between this and the deleted comments post, I feel like anything that happens the rest of the day is superfluous.
This has been one of the best weeks for the toast. Fav Marvell poem flamed? Perfection.
This has been the best week since we learned about Phyllis riding Aristotle like a pony. When was that? The week before last, the archives tell me.
The Toast: most weeks are the best.
My second boyfriend introduced me to To His Coy Mistress. I was already sleeping with him, so I’m not sure what he was trying to say.
“I want anal”?
Ha, I tend to be the aggressor in relationships, so if anyone is asking for that, it tends to be me!
Loved the picture used for this piece already. ADORED IT FOREVER when I saw the filename is uhh.jpg.
I love you, Mallory Ortberg.
Look at how the fingers on her right hand are clenched in that picture. You say “Coy”, I say “About to toss his herbaceous ass into the river.”
They’re playing that elbow game. Where she pushes him away, but for jokes. lol!
“Look, I’m afraid of death, too
But that’s hardly a solid jumping-off point
for sexual negotiations, my vegetal love.”
and thus there was one coherent turn-down to almost all roman elegiac poetry. fantastic.
And to many of Shakespeare’s sonnets as well.
I’m sorry we can’t fuck in the afterlife,
but you’re not the one who can die in childbirth,
you know what I mean?
the new perfect response to all online dating messages y/y?
This is epic. Also, I feel like every “in the club” pop song is basically To His Coy Mistress, but updated for the 21st century. I guess “fuck me, because we’re all going to die someday!” is a lasting sentiment.
This is actually one of my assignments in the undergrad Intro to Poetry class I teach: You are the “coy mistress” or the lady who smashed the flea. Respond, in verse, to the speaker in Marvell’s THCM or in Donne’s “The Flea,” refuting each point metaphysical conceit by metaphysical conceit. I give extra points for coming up with a new conceit. Mallory hits all the right notes here, but my student who wrote in heroic couplets wins.
OH THE FLEA. John Donne is my all-time favorite and this is one of the main reasons why.
Hey lady, since when we have sex our blood becomes mixed, and this flea just bit me and you, well our blood is ALREADY mixed so obviously we can pork now.
I like to imagine this as a monologue where we don’t see the woman’s responses but we can picture them. In my head it involves a ton of eye-rolling and laughing at him.
We actually *do* see the woman’s responses in The Flea, and they’re hilarious:
Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?
Yet thou triumph’st, and say’st that thou
Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now;
And also there’s this wonderful hidden line: “Though parents grudge, and you, w’are met”
This is so perfect. I’ve been waiting for this response since I read this poem in school.
“Your vegetable love would spoil” is exactly what I needed to hear, very sorry for vandalizing your aural space with my garbage words I will be on my now, good day.
– no male ever
I remember doing this poem in 8th grade and loving how blatantly about Dicks it was.
Thanks for telling those Dicks where to go!
ETA: I JUST REMEMBERED !!! Our assignment was to write a reply, and my friend and I SMASHED (or at least our 8th grade selves thought so) the poor Dick with our cleverly worded refusal.
Written by the love child of Christopher Marlowe and Liz Phair.
No comment on the “till the conversion of the Jews” part?
I…disagree with it.
I will totally use this in my classes.
OBVIOUSLY this is perfect as is, but it was so close to iambic tetrameter already that i couldn’t resist
Oh, well, good news: turns out being coy
And not sleeping with you, poet-boy,
Still aren’t crimes, the last I checked,
My man. So my nerves aren’t wrecked
With worry. Feels like I’ve really tried
To say this nicely, and save your pride,
But that never works, so now let’s try
Something else. The truth: had I
The world and time, to sit here by
The river, and listen to you try
To seduce me – it would not appear
At the top of my list. Or anywhere near.
I’ve seen weeds across a garden sprawl
And shoot green fingers up the walls
An empire of grassy love to grow
At me? I don’t want it, bro.
Your vegetable love would spoil. It’d go bad.
If I get thirty thousand years, my lad,
I won’t spend them listening to you
Describe my own damn body to
Me. I know what it looks like
already.
Brava! *applause emoji*
This is the eighth time I am returning to this poem after having read this 3 days ago, and each time I get the urge to stand up and clap for Ortberg.
“I’m going to get old whether I fuck you or not.” This. If only society understood this.