Andrew Marvell (1621–1678)

TO make a final conquest of all me,

Love did compose so sweet an enemy,

In whom both beauties to my death agree,

Joining themselves in fatal harmony,

That, while she with her eyes my heart does bind,

She with her voice might captivate my mind.

I could have fled from one but singly fair;

My disentangled soul itself might save,

Breaking the curlèd trammels of her hair;

But how should I avoid to be her slave,

Whose subtle art invisibly can wreathe

My fetters of the very air I breathe?

It had been easy fighting in some plain,

Where victory might hang in equal choice,

But all resistence against her is vain,

Who has the advantage both of eyes and voice;

And all my forces needs must be undone,

She having gainèd both the wind and sun.