Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE COMBAT OF THE COCKS, by THOMAS RANDOLPH


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE COMBAT OF THE COCKS, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Go, you tame gallants, you that have the name
Last Line: I yield, and give to wisbeach cock the day.
Subject(s): Cock-fighting


GO, you tame gallants, you that have the name,
And would accounted be cocks of the game!
That have brave spurs to show for't, and can crow,
And count all dunghill breed that cannot show
Such painted plumes as yours; that think'st no vice,
With cock-like lust to tread your cockatrice.
Though peacocks, woodcocks, weathercocks you be,
If y' are no fighting cocks, y' are not for me.
I of two feather'd combatants will write;
He, that to th' life means to express the fight,
Must make his ink o' th' blood which they did spill,
And from their dying wings borrow his quill.

No sooner were the doubtful people set,
The matches made, and all that would had bet,
But straight the skilful judges of the play
Bring forth their sharp-heel'd warriors, and they
Were both in linen bags, as if 'twere meet,
Before they di'd, to have their winding-sheet.
With that in th' pit they are put; and when they were
Both on their feet, the Norfolk chanticleer
Looks stoutly at his ne'er-before-seen foe,
And like a challenger begins to crow,
And shakes his wings, as if he would display
His warlike colours, which were black and grey.
Meantime the wary Wisbeach walks, and breathes
His active body, and in fury wreathes
His comely crest, and, often looking down,
He whets his angry beak upon the ground:
With that they meet -- not like that coward breed
Of AEsop, they can better fight than feed.
They scorn the dunghill; 'tis their only prize
To dig for pearls within each other's eyes.
They fight so long, that it was hard to know
To the skilful whether they did fight or no,
Had not the blood which dyed the fatal floor
Borne witness of it; yet they fight the more,
As if each wound were but a spur to prick
Their fury forward: lightning's not more quick
Nor red than were their eyes: 'twas hard to know,
Whether it was blood or anger made them so.
And sure they had been out, had they not stood
More safe by being fenced in by blood.
Yet still they fight; but now (alas!) at length,
Although their courage be full tried, their strength
And blood began to ebb. You that have seen
A water-combat on the sea between
Two roaring, angry, boiling billows, how
They march and meet, and dash their curled brows,
Swelling like graves, as if they did intend
To entomb each other ere the quarrel end.
But when the wind is down, and blust'ring weather,
They are made friends, and sweetly run together --
May think these champions such; their combs grow low,
And they that leapt even now, now scarce can go.
Their wings, which lately at each blow they clapp'd
(As if they did applaud themselves) now flapp'd,
And having lost the advantage of the heel,
Drunk with each other's blood, they only reel.
From either eyes such drops of blood did fall,
As if they wept them for their funeral.
And yet they would fain fight, they come so near,
As if they meant into each other's ear
To whisper death; and when they cannot rise,
They lie and look blows in each other's eyes.
But now the tragic part after the fight,
When Norfolk cock had got the best of it,
And Wisbeach lay a-dying, so that none,
Though sober, but might venture seven to one,
Contracting (like a dying taper) all
His force, as meaning with that blow to fall,
He struggles up, and having taken wind,
Ventures a blow, and strikes the other blind.
And now poor Norfolk, having lost his eyes,
Fights only guided by th' antipathies.
With him (alas!) the proverb holds not true;
The blows his eyes ne'er see his heart most rue.
At length, by chance he stumbling on his foe,
Not having any power to strike a blow,
He falls upon him with a wounded head,
And makes his conquer'd wings his feather-bed
Where lying sick, his friends were very chary
Of him, and fetch'd in haste an apothecary.
But all in vain; his body did so blister,
That it was incapable of any glyster,
Wherefore at length, opening his fainting bill,
He call'd a scrivener, and thus made his will.

Imprimis, Let it never be forgot,
My body freely I bequeath to th' pot,
Decently to be boil'd; and for its tomb,
Let it be buried in some hungry womb.
Item, Executors I will have none,
But he that on my side laid seven to one:
And like a gentleman that he may live,
To him and to his heirs my comb I give;
Together with my brains, that all may know
That oftentimes his brains did use to crow.
Item, It is my will to the weaker ones,
Whose wives complain of them, I give my stones;
To him that's dull, I do my spurs impart,
And to the coward I bequeath my heart.
To ladies that are light, it is my will
My feathers should be given; and for my bill
I'd give't a tailor, but it is so short,
That I'm afraid he'll rather curse me for't!
And for the apothecary's fee, who meant
To give me a glyster, let my rump be sent,
Lastly, because I feel my life decay,
I yield, and give to Wisbeach cock the day.




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