Once, while deploring my home town's obsession with the racist poet Philip Larkin, I wondered how many statues of poets graced the Hull scene.
I'd forgotten one. Andrew Marvell (1621-1678), born near Hull, educated in Hull - "among Boatswains and Cabin boys" - and Member of Parliament for Hull in the 1660s; diplomat, linguist.
His best known poem is probably the one addressed "To His Coy Mistress", so I suppose I'd better give that an outing. It does mention the River Humber, so important to Hull, but also the Ganges, so as not to be too parochial.
I may publish one of more interest to me later, but for now -

TO HIS COY MISTRESS

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Marvell* is always described as a 'metaphysical poet'. I must demonstrate my ignorance and admit that I'm damned if I know why. Metaphysical, "beyond the physical"?

*In Hull we say Marvel, literary types say MarVELL. For English names my rule is, when in doubt stress the first syllable.