---

Andrew Marvell - Fleckno, an English Priest at Rome
Work rating: Low

Oblig`d by frequent visits of this man,
  Whom as Priest, Poet, and Musician,
  I for some branch of Melchizedeck took,
  (Though he derives himself from my Lord Brooke)
  I sought his Lodging; which is at the Sign
  Of the sad Pelican; Subject divine
  For Poetry: There three Stair Cases high,
  Which signifies his triple property,
  I found at last a Chamber, as `twas said,
  But seem`d a Coffin set on the Stairs head.
  Not higher then Seav`n, nor larger then three feet;
  Only there was nor Seeling, nor a Sheet,
  Save that th` ingenious Door did as you come
  Turn in, and shew to Wainscot half the Room.
  Yet of his State no man could have complain`d;
  There being no Bed where he entertain`d:
  And though within one Cell so narrow pent,
  He`d Stanza`s for a whole Appartement.
   Straight without further information,
  In hideous verse, he, and a dismal tone,
  Begins to exercise; as if I were
  Possest; and sure the Devil brought me there.
  But I, who now imagin`d my selfbrought
  To my last Tryal, in a serious thought
  Calm`d the disorders of my youthful Breast,
  And to my Martyrdom prepared Rest.
  Only this frail Ambition did remain,
  The last distemper of the sober Brain,
  That there had been some present to assure
  The future Ages how I did indure:
  And how I, silent, turn`d my burning Ear
  Towards the Verse; and when that could n
  Held him the other; and unchanged yet,
  Ask`d still for more, and pray`d him to repeat:
  Till the Tyrant, weary to persecute,
  Left off, and try`d t`allure me with his Lute.
   Now as two Instruments, to the same key
  Being tun`d by Art, if the one touched be
  The other opposite as soon replies,
  Mov`d by the Air and hidden Sympathies;
  So while he with his gouty Fingers craules
  Over the Lute, his murmuring Belly calls,
  Whose hungry Guts to the same streightness twin`d
  In Echo to the trembling Strings repin`d.
   I, that perceiv`d now what his Musick ment,
  Ask`d civilly if he had eat this Lent.
  He answered yes; with such, and such an one.
  For he has this of gen`rous, that alone
  He never feeds; save only when he tryes
  With gristly Tongue to dart the passing Flyes.
  I ask`d if he eat flesh. And he, that was
  So hungry that though ready to say Mass
  Would break his fast before, said he was Sick,
  And th` Ordinance was only Politick.
  Nor was I longer to invite him: Scant
  Happy at once to make him Protestant,
  And Silent. Nothing now Dinner stay`d
  But till he had himself a Body made.
  I mean till he were drest: for else so thin
  He stands, as if he only fed had been
  With consecrated Wafers: and the Host
  Hath sure more flesh and blood then he can boast.
  This Basso Relievo of a Man,
  Who as a Camel tall, yet easly can
  The Needles Eye thread without any stich,
  (His only impossible is to be rich)
  Lest his too suttle Body, growing rare,
  Should leave his Soul to wander in the Air,
  He therefore circumscribes himself in rimes;
  And swaddled in`s own papers seaven times,
  Wears a close Jacket of poetick Buff,
  With which he doth his third Dimension Stuff.
  Thus armed underneath, he over all
  Does make a primitive Sotana fall;
  And above that yet casts an antick Cloak,
  Worn at the first Counsel of Antioch;
  Which by the Jews long hid, and Disesteem`d,
  He heard of by Tradition, and redeem`d.
  But were he not in this black habit deck`t,
  This half transparent Man would soon reflect
  Each colour that he past by; and be seen,
  As the Chamelion, yellow, blew, or green.
   He drest, and ready to disfurnish now
  His Chamber, whose compactness did allow
  No empty place for complementing doubt,
  But who came last is forc`d first to go out;
  I meet one on the Stairs who made me stand,
  Stopping the passage, and did him demand:
  I answer`d he is here Sir; but you see
  You cannot pass to him but thorow me.
  He thought himself affronted; and reply`d,
  I whom the Pallace never has deny`d
  Will make the way here; I said Sir you`l do
  Me a great favour, for I seek to go.
  He gathring fury still made sign to draw;
  But himself there clos`d in a Scabbard saw
  As narrow as his Sword`s; and I, that was
  Delightful, said there can no Body pass
  Except by penetration hither, where
  Two make a crowd, nor can three Persons here
  Consist but in one substance. Then, to fit
  Our peace, the Priest said I too had some wit:
  To prov`t, I said, the place doth us invite
  But its own narrowness, Sir, to unite.
  He ask`d me pardon; and to make me way
  Went down, as I him follow`d to obey.
  But the propitiatory Priest had straight
  Oblig`d us, when below, to celebrate
  Together our attonement: so increas`d
  Betwixt us two the Dinner to a Feast.
   Let it suffice that we could eat in peace;
  And that both Poems did and Quarrels cease
  During the Table; though my new made Friend
  Did, as he threatned, ere `twere long intend
  To be both witty and valiant: I loth,
  Said `twas too late, he was already both.
   But now, Alas, my first Tormentor came,
  Who satisfy`d with eating, but not tame
  Turns to recite; though Judges most severe
  After th`Assizes dinner mild appear,
  And on full stomach do condemn but few:
  Yet he more strict my sentence doth renew;
  And draws out of the black box of his Breast
  Ten quire of paper in which he was drest.
  Yet that which was a greater cruelty
  Then Nero`s Poem he calls charity:
  And so the Pelican at his door hung
  Picks out the tender bosome to its young.
   Of all his Poems there he stands ungirt
  Save only two foul copies for his shirt:
  Yet these he promises as soon as clean.
  But how I loath`d to see my Neighbour glean
  Those papers, which he pilled from within
  Like white fleaks rising from a Leaper`s skin!
  More odious then those raggs which the French youth
  At ordinaries after dinner show`th,
  When they compare their Chancres and Poulains.
  Yet he first kist them, and after takes pains
  To read; and then, because he understood good.
  Not one Word, thought and swore that they were
  But all his praises could not now appease
  The provok`t Author, whom it did displease
  To hear his Verses, by so just a curse,
  That were ill made condemn`d to be read worse:
  And how (impossible) he made yet more
  Absurdityes in them then were before.
  For he his untun`d voice did fall or raise
  As a deaf Man upon a Viol playes,
  Making the half points and the periods run
  Confus`der then the atomes in the Sun.
  Thereat the Poet swell`d, with anger full,
  And roar`d out, like Perillus in`s own Bull;
  Sir you read false. That any one but you
  Should know the contrary. Whereat, I, now
  Made Mediator, in my room, said, Why?
  To say that you read false Sir is no Lye.
  Thereat the waxen Youth relented straight;
  But saw with sad dispair that was too late.
  For the disdainful Poet was retir`d
  Home, his most furious Satyr to have fir`d
  Against the Rebel; who, at this struck dead
  Wept bitterly as disinherited.
  Who should commend his Mistress now? Or who
  Praise him? both difficult indeed to do
  With truth. I counsell`d him to go in time,
  Ere the fierce Poets anger turn`d to rime.
   He hasted; and I, finding my self free,
  Did, as he threatned, ere `twere long intend
  As one scap`t strangely from Captivity,
  Have made the Chance be painted; and go now
  To hang it in Saint Peter`s for a Vow.
Source
The script ran 0.002 seconds.