Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, UPON A MISER THAT MADE A GREAT FEAST; THE NEXT DAY HE DIED FOR GRIEF, by JOHN CLEVELAND



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UPON A MISER THAT MADE A GREAT FEAST; THE NEXT DAY HE DIED FOR GRIEF, by             Poem Explanation     Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Nor 'scapes he so; our dinner was so good
Last Line: Throughout all ovid's metamorphoses.]
Subject(s): Food & Eating; Grief; Misers; Sorrow; Sadness


NOR 'scapes he so; our dinner was so good
My liquorish Muse cannot but chew the cub,
And what delight she took in th' invitation
Strives to taste o'er again in this relation.
After a tedious grace in Hopkins' rhyme,
Not for devotion but to take up time,
Marched the trained-band of dishes, ushered there
To show their postures and then as they were.
For he invites no teeth; perchance the eye
He will afford the lover's gluttony.
Thus is our feast a muster, not a fight,
Our weapons not for service, but for sight.
But are we tantalized? Is all this meat
Cooked by a limner for to view, not eat?
Th' astrologers keep such houses when they sup
On joints of Taurus or their heavenly Tup.
Whatever feasts be made are summed up here,
His table vies not standing with his cheer.
His churchings, christenings, in this meal are all,
And not transcribed but in th' original.
Christmas is no feast movable; for lo,
The self-same dinner was ten years ago!
'Twill be immortal if it longer stay,
The gods will eat it for ambrosia.
But stay a while; unless my whinyard fail
Or is enchanted, I'll cut off th' entail.
Saint George for England then! have at the mutton
When the first cut calls me bloodthirsty glutton.
Stout Ajax, with his anger-coddled brain,
Killing a sheep thought Agamemnon slain;
The fiction's now proved true; wounding his roast
I lamentably butcher up mine host.
Such sympathy is with his meat, my weapon
Makes him an eunuch when it carves his capon.
Cut a goose leg and the poor soul for moan
Turns cripple too, and after stands on one.
Have you not heard the abominable sport
A Lancaster grand-jury will report?
The soldier with his Morglay watched the mill;
The cats they came to feast, when lusty Will
Whips off great puss's leg which (by some charm)
Proves the next day such an old woman's arm.
'Tis so with him whose carcass never 'scapes,
But still we slash him in a thousand shapes.
Our serving-men (like spaniels) range to spring
The fowl which he had clucked under his wing.
Should he on widgeon or on woodcock feed
It were, Thyestes like, on his own breed.
To pork he pleads a superstition due,
But we subscribe neither to Scot nor Jew.
[No liquor stirs; call for a cup of wine.
'Tis blood we drink; we pledge thee, Catiline.]
Sauces we should have none, had he his wish.
The oranges i' th' margent of the dish
He with such huckster's care tells o'er and o'er,
The Hesperian dragon never watched them more.
But being eaten now into despair
(Having nought else to do) he falls to prayer.
'As thou didst once put on the form of bull
And turned thine Io to a lovely mull,
Defend my rump, great Jove, grant this poor beef
May live to comfort me in all this grief.'
But no Amen was said: see, see it comes!
Draw, boys, let trumpets sound, and strike up drums.
See how his blood doth with the gravy swim,
And every trencher hath a limb of him.
The venison's now in view, our hounds spend deeper.
Strange deer, which in the pasty hath a keeper
Stricter than in the park, making his guest,
(As he had stoln't alive) to steal it drest!
The scent was hot, and we, pursuing faster
Than Ovid's pack of dogs e'er chased their master,
A double prey at once may seize upon,
Acteon, and his case of venison.
Thus was he torn alive; to vex him worse
Death serves him up now as a second course.
Should we, like Thracians, our dead bodies eat,
He would have lived only to save his meat.
[Lastly; we did devour that corpse of his
Throughout all Ovid's Metamorphoses.]





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