Thereat the waxen youth
relented
straight.
Marvell - Poems
Said 'twas too late, he was already both.
But now, alas I my first tormentor came,
Who, satisfied with eating, but not tame,
Turns to recite : though judges most severe,
After the assizes' dinner, mild appear,
And on full stomach do condemn hut few.
Yet he more strict my sentence dotli renew,
And draws out of the black box of his breast
Ten quire of paper, in which he was dressed.
Yet that which was a greater cruelty,
Than Nero's poem, he calls charity :
And so the Pelican, at his door hung,
Picks out the tender bosom to its* young.
Of all his poems there he stain Is ungirt,
Save only two foul copies for his shirt ;
Digitized by VjOOQIC
OF MARVELL. 183
Yet these he promises as soon as clean :
But how I loathed to see my neighbour glean
Those papers, which he peeled from within
Like white flakes rising from a leper's skin !
More odious than those rags which the French
youth
At ordinaries after dinner show'th,
When they compare their chancres and poulains !
Yet he flrst kissed them, and after takes pains
To read, and then, because he understood
Not one word, thought and swore that they were
good.
But all his praises could not now appease
The proroked author, whom it did displease
To hear his verses, by so just a curse,
That were ill made, condemned to be read worse :
And how (impossible ! ) he made yet more
Absurdities in them than were before ;
For his untuned voice did fall or raise
As a deaf man upon a viol plays,
Making the half-points and the periods run
Confuseder than the atoms in the sun.
Thereat the poet swelled with anger full.
And roared out like Perillus in*s own bull ;
Sir, you read false. That any one, but you,
Should know the contrary. Whereat, I now
Made mediator in my room^ said why ?
To say that you read false^ Sir, is no lie.
Thereat the waxen youth relented straight.
But saw with sad despair that 'twas too late ;
Digitized by VjOOQIC
184 THE POEMS
For the disdainful poet was retired
Home, his most furious satire to have fired
Against the rebel, who, at tit is struck dead,
Wept bitterly as disinherited.
Who would commend his mistress now ? O who
Praise him ? both difficult indeed to do
With truth. I counselled him to go in time.
Ere the fierce poet's anger turned to rhyme.
He hasted ; and I, finding myself free.
As one 'scaped strangely from captivity,
Have made the chance be painted ; and go now
To hang it in Saint Peter's for a vow*
Digitized by VjOOQIC
OF MARVELL. 185
TOM MAY'S DEATH.
As one put drunk into the packet-boat,
Tom Mat was hurried hence, and did not
know't ;
But was amazed on the Elysian side,
And, with an eye uncertain gazing wide,
Could not determine in what place he was,
(For whence, in Steven's alley, trees or
grass? )
Nor where the Pofie's-Head, nor the Mitre lay,
Signs by which still he found and lost his way
At last, while doubtfully he all compares.
He saw near hand, as he imagined, Abes.
Such did he seem for corpulence and port.
But 'twas a man much of another sort ;
'Twas Ben, that in the dusky laurel shade.
Amongst the chorus of old poets, laid.
