A Response to Andrew Marvell’s ‘To His Coy Mistress’, Isabella Dayrit ‘22

My so-called “coyness,” which thou say Crime because I won’t give my time of day If thou could, thou would, and thou can Give me all the love thou so call “plan” To boldly state thine hypothetical claims No plan of mine to play along with thine games Stating eternal love for me Vainly composing flowery pleas Describing a love greater than time and distance A fabricated amour, your annoying insistence Thine vegetable love, so full of disease Guilt and attention, thou try to seize Claiming thine love through adoring my body Disgusting, shallow, perversion thou embody No matter how many centuries thou claim thou would spend Reality is those words thou bend I do indeed deserve the best I am no fool knowing this is all mere jest

Instead, thou obsess, obsess and obsess Trying to put me in a state of distress Concerning time, my mortality, and thine too Objectifying women, the trash you spew No need for my beauty to be adored Or affirmed by scum like thou accord My beauty, my body, my choice Pathetic of thou to use thine voice To define my honor, it is mine, my own Meaningless thine lust turns to stone Sure, the worms may get me first But, I prefer the worms to thou, the accursed May there be no embrace in the grave But, death do me first; my heart engraves

How vain, pompous, conceited of thou To believe your words will prompt my vow Rather than spending my precious youth with you