But at my back I always hear. Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie. Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound. My echoing song; then worms shall try. That long preserv'd 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.
Andrew MarvellAbout author
- Author's profession: Writer
- Nationality: english
- Born: March 31, 1621
- Died: August 16, 1678
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When people discuss his plays, he says that he feels like he's standing at customs watching an official ransack his luggage. He cheerfully declares responsibility for a play about two people, and suddenly the officer is finding all manner of exotic contraband like the nature of God and identity, and while he can't deny that they're there, he can't for the life of him remember putting them there. In the end, a play is not the product of an idea; an idea is the product of a play.
Tom Stoppard