Andrew Marvell was raised in Hull and served as a member of Parliament for the city for twenty years. Despite prudently choosing to spend the English Civil War on the continent Marvell, like his friend Milton, was an active supporter of the Commonwealth; he served as an unofficial laureate to Cromwell and tutored the offspring of many leading parliamentarians, including the Protector's ward. Some of his best verse is political in theme; after the Restoration he became famed for his witty, ironic, urbane satires, which were published anonymously.

In Last Instructions to a Painter he attacked the sexual and financial impropriety of the Stuart court and his Account of the Growth of Popery and Arbitrary Government in England caused the London Gazette to offer a reward for information about the identity of its author.

Marvell's lyric poetry, however, was almost entirely neglected until T.S. Eliot and the academic Sir Herbert Grierson championed it after the First World War. Marvell is now regarded by many as the finest of the late Metaphysical Poets and To His Coy Mistress and The Nymph Complaining for the Death of Her Faun are widely admired by contemporary readers.

The Garden How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labors see Crowned from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all flowers and all trees do close To weave the garlands of repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear! Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men; Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude, To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name; Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheresoe'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race: Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wondrous life in this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find, Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide; There like a bird it sits and sings, Then whets, and combs its silver wings; And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walked without a mate; After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one To live in paradise alone. How well the skillful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new, Where from above the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run; And as it works, th' industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers!