I recall a work that mentions how one could go into great detail on anothers features for ten thousand years or so. Yet "he" doesn't have that much time to do so. Does anyone know of such a work. This work is short if i recall correctly.
Do you happen to remember any lines from the poem, or the title, or author? Any one of the three would help immensely.
I don't recall exact phrases. Yet. The author mentions how he would "compliment" or focus on the womans features. In example he would spend a thousand years on her eyes. 5000 on each breast. so many on her hair, ears and such. It could start with hundreds and progress to thousands. I don't believe that he kept the same number with each feature. I believe that the focus of the work was to persuade the lady. Like "The Flea" J. Donne. I thought it was Donne but haven't found the work under his name or in any of my books. I have misplaced the book that I know has the work. I think that the work is dated late 16th or in the 17th century. The book is one that I bought for a college lit class.
I'm betting on Marvell.
To His Coy Mistress
by Andrew Marvell
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 Loves Day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges side.
Should'st 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 then 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 alwaies hear
Times winged Charriot hurrying near:
And yonder all before us lye
Desarts of vast Eternity.
Thy Beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble Vault, shall sound
My ecchoing Song: then Worms shall try
That long preserv'd Virginity:
And your quaint Honour turn to durst;
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 hew
Sits on thy skin like morning glew,
And while thy willing Soul transpires
At every pore with instant Fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our Time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapt pow'r.
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.
Pam, nice catch, the time frame fits:
Thank you all for your help in this matter.