If the speaker in Andrew Marvell's “To His Coy Mistress” had all the time and space in the world, then he wouldn't fuss so much about the coyness of his lady. If they could sit by the Ganges and look for rubies or if they could love each other from before Noah's flood until the very end of time, then he would accept her reluctance. If they lived longer than the empires or if he could spend a century or two admiring each of his beloved's body parts, then he could wait. He would continue to love her, and he wouldn't press her.
But, the speaker, says, such is not the case. He can hear “Time's winged chariot hurrying near,” and he knows that both he and his beloved will die one day. The grave, he remarks, may be a fine place, but it is no spot for embracing. Their bodies will be dust and ash before they have enjoyed each other if his beloved waits too long.
Therefore, the speaker continues, his beloved should give him her love now. She should stop being so coy and allow her youthful passions to take control before time devours them both. Then, the speaker concludes, they may not be able to make the sun stand still, but they will make it run by the power of their love.