![]() I’m paraphrasing, but basically it’s time to put out, or lose out. As Marvell says, he’d gladly spend hundreds of years on courtship but over his shoulder he can always hear, ‘time’s winged chariot, hurrying near’ and whilst the grave is a ‘fine and private place/ But none, I think, do there embrace’. ‘To His Coy Mistress’ being a brilliant case in point, Marvell begging and pleading with his recalcitrant chick in order to get his nut. Now as a lit dude I’m big on 17th century English metaphysical poets**, that point where they really move into full self-expression and deal with some rather more risqué topics than English poetry had before. It took another 1/2 mile and I got it, Andrew Marvell’s poem ‘To His Coy Mistress’ of course! ![]() That plaintive entreaty to a bashful paramour, a plea to one so virtuous to open her heart* to all you have to give of love. My ‘Jog, Piggy! Jog!’ playlist picked out Rhino Bucket ‘Even The Sun Goes Down’ and as I obsessively listened to it 5 times in a row, I contemplated the song’s deeper message and wondered where I had heard its’ ilk before. ![]() It came to me this morning, as most of better ideas do, when I was running, an idea to bring a little culture and class into your tawdry lives.
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