Classic and Contemporary Poetry
ON MARRIOT, by CHARLES COTTON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Thanks for this rescue time; for thou hast won Last Line: Send us no more such eaters, or more meat. Subject(s): Food & Eating; Marriott, John (d. 1653) | ||||||||
THANKS for this rescue Time; for thou hast won In this more glory than the States have done In all their conquests; they have conquer'd men, But thou hast conquer'd that would conquer them, Famine; and in this parricide hast shown A greater courage than their acts dare own; Thou 'st slain thy eating brother, 'tis a fame Greater than all past heroes e'er could claim: Nor do I think thou could'st have conquer'd him By force, it surely was by stratagem. There was a dearth when he gave up the ghost: For, (on my life) his stomach he ne'er lost, That never fail'd him, and without all doubt Had he been victual'd he had still held out: Howe'er, it happen'd for the Nation well, All fear of famine now 's impossible, Since we have scap't his reign; blest were my rhymes, Could they but prove that for the People's crimes He an atonement fell; for in him dy'd More bulls, and rams, than in all times beside, Though we the numbers of them all ingrost, Offer'd with antique piety, and cost: And 't might have well become the People's care To have embowel'd him, if such there were, Who, in respect of their forefathers' peace, Would have attempted such a task as this, For 'tis discreetly doubted he'll go hard To eat up all his fellows i' th' Churchyard: Then, as from several parts each mangled limb Meet at the last, they all will rise in him; And he, (as once a Pleader) may arise A general Advocate at the last Assize. I wonder Death durst venture on this prize, His jaws more greedy were, and wide than his, 'Twas well he only was compos'd of bone, Had he been flesh, this eater had not gone; Or had they not been empty skeletons, As sure as Death he'd crush't his marrow-bones; And knockt 'em too, his stomach was so rife, The rogue lov'd marrow, as he lov'd his life. Behold! behold, O Brethren! you may see By this late object of mortality, 'Tis not the lining of the inward man, (Though ne'er so soundly stuff't, and cramb'd) that can Keep life and soul together; for if that Could have preserv'd him, he had kick't at Fate With his high shoes, and liv'd to make a prey Of butchers' stinking offal to this day. But he is gone, and 't had been excellent sport When first he stalked into Pluto's Court, Had one but seen with what an angry gust The greedy rascal worried Cerberus; I know he'd do 't before he would retreat, And he and 's stomach are not parted yet; But, that digested, how he'll do for meat I can't imagine: for the Devil a bit He'll purchase there, unless this tedious time The tree of Tantalus was sav'd for him; Should it prove so, no doubt he would rejoice, Spite of the Devil, and Hell's horrid noise. But then, could 't not be touch't, 'twould prove a curse Worse than the others, or he'd bear it worse: Oh! would his fortitude in suffering rise So much in glory 'bove his gluttonies, That, rather than confess them to his Sire, He would, like Portia, swallow coals of fire, He might extinguish Hell, and, to prevent Eternal pains, void ashes, and repent; For, without that, his torments still would last, It were damnation for him to fast. But how had I been like to have forgot Myself, with raving of a thing is not, Of his Eternity; I should condole His death and ruin, had he had a soul: But he had none: or 't was mere sensitive; Nor could the gourmandising beast outlive; So that 't may properly of him be said, Marriot the Eater of Grays Inn is dead, And is no more: dear Jove, I thee intreat Send us no more such eaters, or more meat. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest..."MARRIOTT, THE GREAT EATER" by ANONYMOUS AN EPITAPH ON M.H. by CHARLES COTTON LAURA SLEEPING; ODE by CHARLES COTTON RESOLUTION OF A POETICAL QUESTION CONCERNING FOUR RURAL SISTERS: 2 by CHARLES COTTON THE RETIREMENT; TO MR. IZAAK WALTON by CHARLES COTTON A JOURNEY INTO THE PARK; TO SIR ASTON COCKAIN by CHARLES COTTON A PARAPHRASE by CHARLES COTTON A VALEDICTION by CHARLES COTTON |
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