Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ON MY PRETTY MARTEN, by CHARLES COTTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ON MY PRETTY MARTEN, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Come, my pretty little muse
Last Line: And when thou di'st then turn a star.
Subject(s): Martens


COME, my pretty little Muse,
Your assistance I must use,
And you must assist me too
Better than you use to do,
Or the subject we disgrace
Has oblig'd us many ways.
Pretty Matty is our theme,
Of all others the supreme;
Should we study for't a year,
Could we choose a prettier?
Little Mat, whose pretty play
Does divert us ev'ry day,
Whose caresses are so kind,
Sweet, and free, and undesign'd,
Meekness is not more disarming,
Youth and modesty more charming;
Nor from any ill intent
Nuns or doves more innocent;
And for beauty, Nature too
Here would show what she could do;
Finer creature ne'er was seen,
Half so pretty, half so clean.
Eyes as round and black as sloe,
Teeth as white as morning snow;
Breath as sweet as blowing roses,
When the morn their leaves discloses,
Or, what sweeter you'll allow,
Breath of vestals when they vow,
Or, that yet doth sweeter prove,
Sighs of maids who die for love.
Next his feet my praise commands,
Which methinks we should call hands,
For so finely they are shap'd,
And for any use so apt,
Nothing can so dext'rous be,
Nor fine handed near as he.
These, without though black as jet,
Within are soft and supple yet
As virgin's palm, where man's deceit
Seal of promise never set.
Back and belly soft as down,
Sleeps which peace of conscience crown,
Or the whispers love reveal,
Or the kisses lovers steal:
And of such a rich perfume,
As, to say I dare presume,
Will out-ravish and out-wear
That of th' fulsome milliner.
Tail so bushy and so long,
(Which t'omit would do him wrong)
As the proudest she of all
Proudly would be fann'd withal.

Having given thus the shape
Of this pretty little Ape,
To his virtues next I come,
Which amount to such a sum,
As not only well may pass
Both my poetry and dress
To set forth as I should do't,
But arithmetic to boot.

Valour is the ground of all
That we mortals virtues call;
And the little Cavalier
That I do present you here,
Has of that so great a share,
He might lead the world to war.
What the beasts of greater size
Tremble at he does despise,
And is so compos'd of heart,
Drums nor guns can make him start:
Noises which make others quake,
Serve his courage to awake.
Lybian lions make their feasts
Of subdu'd plebeian beasts,
And Hyrcanian tigers prey
Still on creatures less than they,
Or less arm'd; the Russian bears
Of tamer beasts make massacres.
Irish wolves devour the dams,
English foxes prey on lambs.
These are all effects of course,
Not of valour, but of force;
But my Matty does not want
Heart t' attack an elephant.
Yet his nature is so sweet,
Mice may nibble with his feet,
And may pass as if unseen,
If they spare his magazine.

Constancy, a virtue then
In this age scarce known to men,
Or to womankind at least,
In this pretty little beast,
To the world might be restored,
And my Matty be ador'd.
Chaste he is as turtle doves,
That abhor adult'rate loves;
True to friendship, and to love,
Nothing can his virtue move,
But his faith in either giv'n,
Seems as if 'twere seal'd in Heaven.
Of all brutes to him alone
Justice is, and favour known.
Nor is Matty's excellence
Merely circumscrib'd by sense,
He for judgment what to do
Knows both good and evil too,
But is with such virtue bless'd,
That he chooses still the best,
And wants nothing of a wit
But a tongue to utter it:
Yet with that we may dispense,
For his signs are eloquence.
Then for fashion and for mien,
Matty's fit to court a Queen;
All his motions graceful are,
And all courts outshine as far
As our courtiers Peakish clowns,
Or those Peaknils northern loons;
Which should ladies see, they sure
Other beasts would ne'er endure;
Then no more they would make suit
For an ugly pissing-coat
Rammish cat, nor make a pet
Of a bawdy marmoset.
Nay, the squirrel, though it is
Pretti'st creature next to this,
Would henceforward be discarded,
And in woods live unregarded.
Here sweet beauty is a creature
Purposely ordained by Nature,
Both for cleanness and for shape
Worthy a fair lady's lap;
Nor her bosom would disgrace,
Nor a more beloved place.

Live long, my pretty little boy,
Thy master's darling, lady's joy,
And when Fate will no more forbear
To lay his hands on him and her,
E'en then let Fate my Matty spare,
And when thou di'st then turn a star.





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