Classic Poem

Nor 'scapes he so: our dinner was so good,
My liquorish Muse cannot but chew the cood:
And what delight shee tooke i' th' invitation,
Strives to tast o're again in this relation.
After a tedious Grace in Hopkins rithme,
Not for devotion, but to take up time,
March't the train'd-band of dishes usher'd there,
To shew their postures, and then As they were .
For he invites no teeth, perchance the eye
Hee will afford the Lovers gluttony;
Thus is the Feast a muster, not a fight;
Our weapons not for service, but for sight.
But are we Tantaliz'd? is all this meat
Cook'd by a Limner for to view, not eat?
Th' Astrologers keep such Houses when they sup
On joynts of Taurus , or their heavenly Tup.
Whatever feasts he made are sum'd up here,
His table vyes not standing with his cheare.
His Churchings, Christ'nings, in this Meale are all,
And not transcrib'd, but i'th' Originall.
Christmas is no Feast movable: for loe
The self-same dinner was ten years agoe:
'Twill be immortall if it longer stay,
The Gods will eat it for Ambrosia .
But stay a while; unlesse my whinyard faile,
Or is inchanted, I'le cut of th' intaile.
Saint George for England then: have at the mutton,
When the first cut calls me bloud-thirsty glutton:
Stout Ajax with his anger-quodl'd braine
Killing a sheep thought Agamemnon slaine:
The fiction's now prov'd true; wounding his roast,
I lamentably butcher up mine hoast.
Such sympathie is with his meat, my weapon
Makes him an Eunuch, when it carves his Capon.
Cut a Goose-legge, and the poore soule for moane
Turnes Creeple too, and after stands on one.
Have you not heard th' abominable sport
A Lancaster grand Jurie will report?
The souldier with his Morglay watch't the Mill,
The Cats they came to feast, when lustie Will
Whips of great Pusses leg, which by some charme
Proves the next day such an old womans arme:
'Tis so with him whose karkase never 'scapes,
But still we slash him in a thousand shapes
Our serving-men like Spaniels range, to spring
The fowle which he hath clock't under his wing.
Should he on Widgeon, or on Woodcock feed,
It were ( Thyestes -like) on his owne breed.
To porke he pleads a superstition due,
But not a mouth is muzled by the Jew.
Sawces we should have none, had he his wish,
The Oranges i' th margent of the dish
He with such Huckster's care tells o'r and o'r,
Th' Hesperian Dragon never watcht them more.
But being eaten now into dispaire,
Having nought else to doe, he falls to prayer:
As thou did'st once put on the forme of Bull,
And turn'st thy Io to a lovely Mull,
Defend my rump great Iove ; grant this poor beefe
May live to comfort me in all this griefe.
But no Amen was said: See, see it comes,
Draw boyes, let Trumpets sound & strike up Drums.
See how his blood doth with the gravie swim,
And every trencher has a limb of him.
The Ven'son 's now in view, our Hounds spend deeper,
Strange Deer, which in the Pasty hath a Keeper
Stricter then in the Park, making his guest
(As he had stoln't alive) to steale it drest:
The scent was hot; and we pursuing faster,
Then Ovids pack of dogs e're chas'd their Master,
A double prey at once we seize upon,
Actaeon and his case of Vension:
Thus was he torne alive. To vex him worse,
Death serves him up now as a second coorse.
Should we, like Thracians , our dead bodies eat,
He would have liv'd only to save his meat.
Hymen shall twist thee and thy Page,
The distinct Tropicks of Mans age.
Well (Madam Time) be ever bald,
I'le not thy Perywig be call'd:
I'le never be, 'stead of a Lover,
An aged Chronicles new Cover.