Classic Poem

I know to whom I speak. On Isis' banks,
And melancholy Cherwell, near the ranks
Of shading willows, often have we lain
And heard the Muses and Apollo's strain
In heavenly raptures, as the pow'rs on high
Had there been lecturers of poesy,
And nature's searcher, deep philosophy;
Yet neither these, nor any other art
Can yield a means to cure my wounded heart.
Stay then from losing longer time on me,
And in these deep caves of obscurity
Spend some few hours to see what is not known
Above; but on the wings of rumour blown.
Here is the fairies' court, if so they be.
With that he rose. Come near, and thou shalt see
Who are my neighbours. And with that he led
(With such a pace as lovers use to tread
Near sleeping parents) by the hand the swain
Unto a pretty seat, near which these twain
By a round little hole had soon descried
A trim feat room, about a fathom wide,
As much in height, and twice as much in length,
Out of the main rock cut by artful strength.
The two-leav'd door was of the mother pearl,
Hinged and nail'd with gold. Full many a girl,
Of the sweet fairy ligne, wrought in the loom
That fitted those rich hangings clad the room.
In them was wrought the love of their great king,
His triumphs, dances, sports, and revelling:
And learned Spenser, on a little hill
Curiously wrought, lay, as he tun'd his quill;
The floor could of respect complain no loss,
But neatly cover'd with discolour'd moss,
Woven into stories, might for such a piece
Vie with the richest carpets brought from Greece.
A little mushroom (that was now grown thinner,
By being one time shaven for the dinner
Of one of Spain's grave grandees, and that day
Out of his greatness' larder stol'n away
By a more nimble elf than are their wits,
Who practise truth as seldom as their spits) —
This mushroom (on a frame of wax y-pight,
Wherein was wrought the strange and cruel fight
Betwixt the troublous commonwealth of flies,
And the sly spider with industrious thighs)
Serv'd for a table; then a little elf
(If possible, far lesser than itself),
Brought in the covering made of white rose leaves,
And (wrought together with the spinner's sleaves)
Met in the table's middle in right angles;
The trenchers were of little silver spangles:
The salt the small bone of a fish's back,
Whereon in little was express'd the wrack
Of that deplored mouse, from whence hath sprung
That furious battle Homer whilom sung
Betwixt the frogs and mice: so neatly wrought
Yet could not work it lesser in a thought.
Then on the table, for their bread, was put
The milk-white kernels of the hazel nut;
The cupboard, suitable to all the rest,
Was as the table with like cov'ring dress'd.
The ewer and bason were, as fitting well,
A periwinkle and a cockle-shell:
The glasses pure, and thinner than we can
See from the sea-betroth'd Venetian,
Were all of ice not made to overlast
One supper, and betwixt two cowslips cast:
A prettier fashion hath not yet been told,
So neat the glass was, and so feat the mould.
A little spruce elf then (just of the set
Of the French dancer or such marionette)
Clad in a suit of rush, woven like a mat,
A monkshood flow'r then serving for a hat;
Under a cloak made of the spider's loom:
This fairy (with them held a lusty groom)
Brought in his bottles; neater were there none.
And every bottle was a cherrystone.
To each a seed pearl served for a screw,
And most of them were fill'd with early dew.
Some choicer ones, as for the king most meet,
Held mel-dew and the honeysuckle's sweet.
All things thus fitted; straightways follow'd in
A case of small musicians, with a din
Of little hautboys, whereon each one strives
To show his skill; they all were made of selves,
Excepting one, which puff'd the player's face,
And was a chibole, serving for the bass.
Then came the service. The first dishes were
In white broth boil'd a crammed grasshopper;
A pismire roasted whole; five crayfish eggs;
The udder of a mouse; two hornets' legs;
Instead of olives, cleanly pickl'd sloes;
Then of a bat were serv'd the pettitoes;
Three fleas in souse, a cricket from the brine;
And of a dormouse, last, a lusty chine.
Tell me, thou grandee, Spain's magnifico,
Couldst thou e'er entertain a monarch foe,
Without exhausting most thy rents and fees,
Told by a hundred thousand marvedis,
That bragging poor account? If we should hear
Some one relate his incomes every year
To be five hundred thousand farthings told,
Could ye retrain from laughter? could ye hold?
Or see a miser sitting down to dine
On some poor sprat new squeezed from the brine,
Take out his spectacles, and with them eat,
To make his dish seem larger and more great;
Or else to make his gold its worth surpass,
Would see it through a multiplying glass:
Such are their audits; such their high esteems;
A Spaniard is still less than what he seems:
Less wise, less potent; rich, but glorious;
Prouder than any and more treacherous.
But let us leave the braggadocio here,
And turn to better company and cheer.