Tom May's Death
Andrew Marvell
As one put drunk into the packet-boat
Tom May was hurried hence and did not know’t.
But was amazed on the Elysian side,
And with an eye uncertain, gazing wide,
Could not determine in what place he was,
(For whence, in Stephen’s Alley, trees or grass?)
Nor there The Pope’s Head, nor The Mitre lay,
Signs by which still he found and lost his way.
At last while doubtfully he all compares,
He saw near hand, as he imagined, Ayres.
Such did he seem for coruplence and port,
But ’twas a man much of another sort;
’Twas Ben that in the dusky laurel shade
Amongst the chorus of old poets layed,
Sounding of ancient heroes, such as were
The subjects’ safety, and the rebels’ fear,
And how a double-headed vulture eats
Brutus and Cassius, the people’s cheats.
But seeing May, he varied straight his song,
Gently to signify that he was wrong.
‘Cups more than civil of Emathian wine,
I sing’ (said he) ‘and the Pharsalian Sign,
Where the historian of the commonsealth
In his own bowels sheathed the conquering health.’
By this, May to himself and them was come,
He found he was translated, and by whom,
Yet then with foot as strumbling as his tongue
Pressed for his place among the learned throng.
But Ben, who knew not neither foe nor friend,
Sworn enemy to all that do pretend,
Rose; more than ever he was seen severe,
Shook his gray locks, and his own bays did tear
At this intrusion. Then with laurel wand—
The awful sign of his supreme command,
At whose dread whisk Virgil himself does quake,
And Horace patiently its stroke does take—
As he crowds in, he whipped him o’er the pate
Like Pembroke at the masque, and then did rate:
‘Far from these blessed shades tread back again
Most servile wit, and mercenary pen,
Polydore, Lucan, Alan, Vandal, Goth
Malignant poet and historian both,
Go seek the novice statesmen, and obtrude
On them some Roman-cast similitude,
Tell them of liberty, the stories fine,
Until you all grow consuls in your wine;
Or thou, Dictator of the glass, bestow
On him the Cato, this the Cicero,
Transferring old Rome hither in your talk,
As Bethlem’s House did to Loreto walk.
Foul architect, that hadst not eye to see
How ill the measures of these states agree,
And who by Rome’s example England lay,
Those but to Lucan to continue May.
But thee nor ignorance nor seeming good
Misled, bu malice fixed and understood.
Because some one than thee more worthy wears
The sacred laurel, hence are all these tears?
Must therefore all the world be set on flame,
Because a gázette-writer missed his aim?
And for a tankard-bearing muse must we
As for the basket, Guelphs and Ghib’llines be?
When the sword glitters o’er the judge’s head,
And fear has coward churchmen silencèd,
Then is the poet’s time, ’tis then he draws,
And single fights forsaken virtue’s cause.
He, when the wheel of empire whirleth back,
And though the world’s disjointed axle crack,
Sings still of ancient rights and better times,
Seeks wretched good, and arraigns successful crimes.
But thou, base man, first prostituted hast
Our spotless knowledge and the studies chaste,
Apostatizing from our arts and us,
To turn the chronicler to Spartacus.
Yet wast thou taken hence with equal fate,
Before thou couldst great Charles his death relate.
But what will deeper wound thy little mind,
Hast left surviving D’Avenant still behind,
Who laughs to see in this thy death renewed,
Right Roman poverty and gratitude.
Poor poet thou, and grateful senate they,
Who thy last reckoning did so largely pay,
And with the public gravity would come,
When thou hadst drunk thy last to lead thee home,
If that can be thy home where Spenser lies,
And reverend Chaucer, but their dust does rise
Against thee, and expels thee from their side,
As th’ eagle’s plumes from other birds divide.
Nor here thy shade must dwell. Return, return,
Where sulphury Phlegethon does ever burn.
Thee Cerberus with all his jaws shall gnash,
Megaera thee with all her serpents lash.
Thou riveted into Ixion’s wheel
Shalt break, and the perpetual vulture feel.
’Tis just, what torments poets e’er did feign,
Thou first historically shouldst sustain.’
Thus, by irrevocable sentence cast,
May, only Master of these Revels, passed.
And straight he vanished in the cloud of pitch,
Such as unto the Sabbath bears the witch.
