found at last a chamber, as 'twas said,
But seemed a coffin set on the stair's head,
the lodgment of Richard Flecknoe, Irishman, priest, poet, and musician. A strange figure:
as thin
He stands, as if he only fed had been
With consecrated wafers, and the Host
Hath sure more flesh and blood than he can boast;
This basso-relievo of a man—
Who, as a camel tall, yet easily can
The needle's eye thread through without any stitch.
No sooner is Marvell within the basso-relievo's clutches than
Straight, without further information
In hideous verse, he, in a dismal tone,
Begins to exorcise, as if I were
Possessed;
and so it goes on
Till the tyrant, weary to persecute,
Left off and tried to allure me with his lute.
Desperate measures have now to be taken; Marvell asks the man to dinner and for a little time, at least, secures a respite. But not for long; the poet,
Satisfied with eating, but not tame,
Turns to recite; though judges most severe,
After the 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 dressed.