Marvell, Andrew, 1621-1678:  Fleckno, an English Priest at Rome. [from Miscellaneous poems (1681)]

1          Oblig'd by frequent visits of this man,

2          Whom as Priest, Poet, and Musician,

3          I for some branch of Melchizedeck took,

4          (Though he derives himself from my Lord Brooke)

5          I sought his Lodging; which is at the Sign

6          Of the sad Pelican; Subject divine

7          For Poetry: There three Stair-Cases high,

8          Which signifies his triple property,

9          I found at last a Chamber, as 'twas said,

10        But seem'd a Coffin set on the Stairs head.

11        Not higher then Seav'n, nor larger then three feet;

12        Only there was nor Seeling, nor a Sheet,

13        Save that th'ingenious Door did as you come

14        Turn in, and shew to Wainscot half the Room.

15        Yet of his State no man could have complain'd;

16        There being no Bed where he entertain'd:

17        And though within one Cell so narrow pent,

18        He'd Stanza's for a whole Appartement.

19        Straight without further information,

20        In hideous verse, he, and a dismal tone,

21        Begins to exercise; as if I were

22        Possest; and sure the Devil brought me there.

23        But I, who now imagin'd my self brought

24        To my last Tryal, in a serious thought

25        Calm'd the disorders of my youthful Breast,

26        And to my Martyrdom prepared Rest.

27        Only this frail Ambition did remain,

28        The last distemper of the sober Brain,

29        That there had been some present to assure

30        The future Ages how I did indure:

31        And how I, silent, turn'd my burning Ear

32        Towards the Verse; and when that could ne'er

33        Held him the other; and unchanged yet,

34        Ask'd still for more, and pray'd him to repeat:

35        Till the Tyrant, weary to persecute,

36        Left off, and try'd t'allure me with his Lute.

37        Now as two Instruments, to the same key

38        Being tun'd by Art, if the one touched be

39        The other opposite as soon replies,

40        Mov'd by the Air and hidden Sympathies;

41        So while he with his gouty Fingers craules

42        Over the Lute, his murmuring Belly calls,

43        Whose hungry Guts to the same streightness twin'd

44        In Echo to the trembling Strings repin'd.

45        I, that perceiv'd now what his Musick ment,

46        Ask'd civilly if he had eat this Lent.

47        He answered yes; with such, and such an one.

48        For he has this of gen'rous, that alone

49        He never feeds; save only when he tryes

50        With gristly Tongue to dart the passing Flyes.

51        I ask'd if he eat flesh. And he, that was

52        So hungry that though ready to say Mass

53        Would break his fast before, said he was Sick,

54        And th'Ordinance was only Politick.

55        Nor was I longer to invite him: Scant

56        Happy at once to make him Protestant,

57        And Silent. Nothing now Dinner stay'd

58        But till he had himself a Body made.

59        I mean till he were drest: for else so thin

60        He stands, as if he only fed had been

61        With consecrated Wafers: and the Host

62        Hath sure more flesh and blood then he can boast.

63        This Basso Relievo of a Man,

64        Who as a Camel tall, yet easly can

65        The Needles Eye thread without any stich,

66        (His only impossible is to be rich)

67        Lest his too suttle Body, growing rare,

68        Should leave his Soul to wander in the Air,

69        He therefore circumscribes himself in rimes;

70        And swaddled in's own papers seaven times,

71        Wears a close Jacket of poetick Buff,

72        With which he doth his third Dimension Stuff.

73        Thus armed underneath, he over all

74        Does make a primitive Sotana fall;

75        And above that yet casts an antick Cloak,

76        Worn at the first Counsel of Antioch;

77        Which by the Jews long hid, and Disesteem'd,

78        He heard of by Tradition, and redeem'd.

79        But were he not in this black habit deck't,

80        This half transparent Man would soon reflect

81        Each colour that he past by; and be seen,

82        As the Chamelion, yellow, blew, or green.

83        He drest, and ready to disfurnish now

84        His Chamber, whose compactness did allow

85        No empty place for complementing doubt,

86        But who came last is forc'd first to go out;

87        I meet one on the Stairs who made me stand,

88        Stopping the passage, and did him demand:

89        I answer'd he is here Sir; but you see

90        You cannot pass to him but thorow me.

91        He thought himself affronted; and reply'd,

92        I whom the Pallace never has deny'd

93        Will make the way here; I said Sir you'l do

94        Me a great favour, for I seek to go.

95        He gathring fury still made sign to draw;

96        But himself there clos'd in a Scabbard saw

97        As narrow as his Sword's; and I, that was

98        Delightful, said there can no Body pass

99        Except by penetration hither, where

100      Two make a crowd, nor can three Persons here

101      Consist but in one substance. Then, to fit

102      Our peace, the Priest said I too had some wit:

103      To prov't, I said, the place doth us invite

104      But its own narrowness, Sir, to unite.

105      He ask'd me pardon; and to make me way

106      Went down, as I him follow'd to obey.

107      But the propitiatory Priest had straight

108      Oblig'd us, when below, to celebrate

109      Together our attonement: so increas'd

110      Betwixt us two the Dinner to a Feast.

111      Let it suffice that we could eat in peace;

112      And that both Poems did and Quarrels cease

113      During the Table; though my new made Friend

114      Did, as he threatned, ere 'twere long intend

115      To be both witty and valiant: I loth,

116      Said 'twas too late, he was already both.

117      But now, Alas, my first Tormentor came,

118      Who satisfy'd with eating, but not tame

119      Turns to recite; though Judges most severe

120      After th'Assizes dinner mild appear,

121      And on full stomach do condemn but few:

122      Yet he more strict my sentence doth renew;

123      And draws out of the black box of his Breast

124      Ten quire of paper in which he was drest.

125      Yet that which was a greater cruelty

126      Then Nero's Poem he calls charity:

127      And so the Pelican at his door hung

128      Picks out the tender bosome to its young.

129      Of all his Poems there he stands ungirt

130      Save only two foul copies for his shirt:

131      Yet these he promises as soon as clean.

132      But how I loath'd to see my Neighbour glean

133      Those papers, which he pilled from within

134      Like white fleaks rising from a Leaper's skin!

135      More odious then those raggs which the French youth

136      At ordinaries after dinner show'th,

137      When they compare their Chancres and Poulains.

138      Yet he first kist them, and after takes pains

139      To read; and then, because he understood

140      Not one Word, thought and swore that they were good.

141      But all his praises could not now appease

142      The provok't Author, whom it did displease

143      To hear his Verses, by so just a curse,

144      That were ill made condemn'd to be read worse:

145      And how (impossible) he made yet more

146      Absurdityes in them then were before.

147      For he his untun'd voice did fall or raise

148      As a deaf Man upon a Viol playes,

149      Making the half points and the periods run

150      Confus'der then the atomes in the Sun.

151      Thereat the Poet swell'd, with anger full,

152      And roar'd out, like Perillus in's own Bull;

153      Sir you read false. That any one but you

154      Should know the contrary. Whereat, I, now

155      Made Mediator, in my room, said, Why?

156      To say that you read false Sir is no Lye.

157      Thereat the waxen Youth relented straight;

158      But saw with sad dispair that was too late.

159      For the disdainful Poet was retir'd

160      Home, his most furious Satyr to have fir'd

161      Against the Rebel; who, at this struck dead

162      Wept bitterly as disinherited.

163      Who should commend his Mistress now? Or who

164      Praise him? both difficult indeed to do

165      With truth. I counsell'd him to go in time,

166      Ere the fierce Poets anger turn'd to rime.

167      He hasted; and I, finding my self free,

168      As one scap't strangely from Captivity,

169      Have made the Chance be painted; and go now

170      To hang it in Saint Peter's for a Vow.