Andrew Marvell (1621–1678)

’TIS madness to resist or blame

The force of angry heaven’s flame;

And if we would speak true,

Much to the man is due,

Who from his private gardens, where

He lived reservèd and austere,

As if his highest plot

To plant the bergamot,

Could by industrious valor climb

To ruin the great work of Time,

And cast the kingdoms old,

Into another mould.

What field of all the civil war,

Where his were not the deepest scar?

And Hampton shows what part

He had of wiser art;

Where, twining subtile fears with hope,

He wove a net of such a scope,

That Charles himself might chase

To Carisbrook’s narrow case;

That thence the royal actor borne,

The tragic scaffold might adorn.

While round the armèd bands,

Did clap their bloody hands,

He nothing common did, or mean,

Upon that memorable scene,

But with his keener eye

The axe’s edge did try;

Nor called the gods, with vulgar spite,

To vindicate his helpless right;

But bowed his comely head

Down, as upon a bed.