So… now to connect the history to the poetry… 

In the late 1500s and 1600s, as you hopefully gleaned from my history blitz, it was necessary to pick a religious team and a worldview. The thing was, no matter which religion/worldview you chose, at some point, it was the wrong one and your life and career were endangered. Talk about cancel culture.

If you were Catholic, like John Donne, you were almost NEVER on the right team, and you had to watch your ass. In fact, if you were Donne, you eventually had to fake a conversion to protestantism. It’s ok, though, John Donne, because you were witty, nerdy, and had a dirty mind, and I love you very much and I make sure other people do, too. 

If you were Puritan, like John Milton, you had a brief moment in the sun and then literally EVERYONE hated you forever after. And then you went blind and I don’t feel sorry for you because PURITANS. But I do enjoy Paradise Lost because it makes Satan into such a cool, sexy, rebellious rock star. I even quoted that poem (or Alex did) in Free Love— “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”

If you were Anglican (protestant/Church of England), like Andrew Marvell, you were safe a lot of the time, but there were some definite risky periods. Marvell was friends with Milton, and he tutored Cromwell’s ward and worked for Cromwell briefly as a Latin secretary, so even though Marvell was mainstream religion-wise, he was potentially up shit creek when Charles II was crowned. He managed to finesse the situation and get on Charles II’s good side, and very nobly kept him from executing Milton which is good because Milton is super great or whatever. Not my cup of tea, but he was a masterful poet and people love him. 

In addition to religious teams, there were also literary genre teams at work. The three biggies are as follows:

The Cavaliers— As the name implies, these guys were Royalists. Their work is generally light-hearted and fluffier, designed to entertain the upper classes. Their motto was Carpe Diem (seize the day, live like you're dying). Lots of poems about love and sex and partying and having a good time before you die. They do a lot of hilarious self-owning poems about romantic rejection that I particularly enjoy. Lots of references to the original hard partiers, the Ancient Greeks and Romans. Robert Herrick, Thomas Carew, Richard Lovelace, and Sir John Suckling are the most famous. 

The Puritans— their work is about being a sinful disgusting worm and about how God is awesome and nothing else is. Milton is the most notable example. 

The Metaphysicals— These guys were into STEM (Science Technology Engineering Mathematics) before STEM was a thing. Their poetry is uniquely argumentative— they are trying to persuade you in their poems. They are like lawyers arguing a case. They were witty and erudite and, like myself, they loved to throw weird references into their work— astronomy, metallurgy, geography, mathematics, etc. Their main take on life was that it was about much more than the simple physical reality that normies dwell in, thus they were the METAphysicals. Meta means “above.” The most famous is John Donne, and Andrew Marvell is another, although Marvell is truly somewhere between Cavalier and Metaphysical. I love both, so I love Marvell, too… but it’s Donne for me! 

Ok. Now. Should we look at an actual poem? The one I quoted in Chapter 47 of Free Radical? 

To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell.  

Coy means “shy” and mistress doesn’t mean side-piece, it just means girlfriend. The point of this poem is to persuade the girl to hurry up and smash. 

Had we but world enough and time, 

This coyness, lady, were no crime. 

We would sit down, and think which way 

To walk, and pass our long love’s day. 

So, straightforward so far… But we start off with a tone of “If only”— If only we DID have lots of time for me to slowly woo you…Alas… 

Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side 

Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide 

Of Humber would complain. I would 

Love you ten years before the flood, 

And you should, if you please, refuse 

Till the conversion of the Jews. 

Here Marvell makes use of juxtaposition— putting two things together for the purpose of better appreciating how different they are. He is doing it here to be funny, I think. He compares the “exotic” Ganges river in India where he imagines his gal-pal would just pick up rubies along the banks with the very prosaic Humber river in Hull (a prosaic town in Northern England), where he will be hanging around complaining. 

Then he gets back to the business of expressing how much time he wishes he had to spend on wooing her, because if he could have, he would have started wooing her 10 years before the Biblical flood and would continue until the Second Coming and the conversion of the Jews. 

Keep in mind the purpose of the poem and note that employing the Bible to get laid before marriage is itself a kind of funny juxtaposition. We see you, Andrew.

My vegetable love should grow 

Vaster than empires and more slow; 

An hundred years should go to praise 

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; 

Two hundred to adore each breast, 

But thirty thousand to the rest; 

An age at least to every part, 

And the last age should show your heart. 

For, lady, you deserve this state, 

Nor would I love at lower rate. 

So, right out of the gate, there’s no way that “vegetable love” is not supposed to be funny— it’s deliberately clunky and inelegant. He’s saying that his love would grow at the slow rate that a plant grows. More slowly than an empire grows, even.  

The next bit is just fantastic. A very specific breakdown of exactly how MUCH time he would spend praising her body parts, IF HE HAD THE TIME: A hundred years on her eyes and forehead. Two centuries per breast. As for all the rest? And I’m guessing you can guess which parts he might be considering? Thirty thousand years, not a minute less. And her heart? An age, baby. A whole age. Because you DESERVE that, girl. 

But at my back I always hear 

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near; 

And yonder all before us lie 

Deserts of vast eternity. 

Ah, the shift. There’s always a “But” with these guys, isn’t there?? The shift is a key moment in many poems when the speaker moves from the set-up to the heart of the matter. Or from one idea or metaphor to a new one. 

 If you get lucky, it’s preceded by a shift word like But or Yet like this so you can easily find it. 

Here, we have a loose reference to mythology, the idea of Time driving a wingèd chariot that is coming for you, and it's taking you to your death, the “Deserts of vast eternity” that we’re heading for. The image of deserts contrasts nicely with the lush imagery of rivers and plants from earlier in the poem. 

Thy beauty shall no more be found; 

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound 

My echoing song; then worms shall try 

That long-preserved virginity, 

And your quaint honour turn to dust, 

And into ashes all my lust; 

The grave’s a fine and private place, 

But none, I think, do there embrace. 

Here comes the full-court press. When we die, girl, we won’t be (you won’t be) young and pretty anymore. In your marble tomb, the only ones who are going to be interested in taking that virginity you’re holding onto so tightly is the WORMS, girl. The worms. 🪱 All that honor and modesty you have now will be dust, and all my desire for you will be ashes, and I won't be writing you any more poems. 

Sound-wise, we have a great example of eye-rhyme here... try and virginity look like they should rhyme, but do not. It kind of invites you to say "virgini-TIE" 👔 to make it rhyme... eye-rhyme was common and perfectly acceptable, but for me it adds to the ridiculousness of this passage when you are reading the poem aloud. And you should ALWAYS read a poem aloud. They are crafted to be heard, not seen.  (Note: "eternity" and "lie" created another eye-rhyme earlier in the poem, kind of the reverse of this one, sound-wise... makes you want to pronounce lie as lee. Sometimes this is an accent thing... in Robert Burns poems, what may look like eye-rhyme is perfect rhyme if you have a Scottish accent.)

Our speaker next says, I’ll grant you that a tomb provides privacy and a classy marble place to hang out, but I don’t think many people are smashing in them.  (Marvell never read Anne Rice)

Now therefore, while the youthful hue 

Sits on thy skin like morning dew, 

And while thy willing soul transpires 

At every pore with instant fires, 

Now let us sport us while we may, 

And now, like amorous birds of prey, 

Rather at once our time devour 

Than languish in his slow-chapped power. 

Another shift signal— “Now therefore.” So we are changing tone again… I’ve given you the romantic pitch, I’ve given you the dire warning, now I am going to try and inspire you to take immediate action with a volley of flattery!  Look at your complexion, girl! So youthful, so dewy! Do you use Korean skincare? Now, while we are on fire for each other… NOW is the time to do it… Let’s clinch up like horny eagles and make Time sorry for trying to rob us of our lives. Let’s rob HIM by DOING IT.  

Let us roll all our strength and all 

Our sweetness up into one ball, 

And tear our pleasures with rough strife 

Through the iron gates of life: 

Thus, though we cannot make our sun 

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

So, baby girl, let’s make the beast with two backs. Let’s form a literal ball. Let’s make it rough and dirty while we still can. We cannot make the sun stand still, so let’s make time fly by doing something incredibly enjoyable. Doing, namely, and I cannot emphasize this enough, IT. 

So… That’s how a metaphysical poet tries to get laid. 

And you know what? This vintage panty-dropper would have worked on me, NGL. That blend of nerdiness, humor, flattery, and smoothness would have had me taking off my purity ring in a hurry. 

If you enjoyed this casual analysis and you want to see me do another, I can do “The Flea” for you by John Donne which is also great. I mean… this guy’s gonna make it rain while writing about a flea. That’s moxie. That's skill.

Now… just for funsies, how about a frankly pornographic short poem by Robert Herrick who was a Cavalier poet and AN ANGLICAN CLERGYMAN? 

(I believe lawn here refers to the light cotton fabric that underclothes were made of— so, in the words of Dave Matthews, “hike up your skirt a little more, and show your world to me”)

The Right Reverend Robert Herrick, making me have to bust out a Red M for sexual content. Shame on ya, Robert. Not really though— get your freak on, Bobby. I'm not judging.

The man was so lonely that he had imaginary girlfriends he wrote poems to. He also wrote poems to his pig. He doesn't need me giving him crap.

He had a KILLER perm, though. Surely that would have helped him find love? Photo evidence below.

Oh God, wait. I can't stop. ONE MORE. One quick one. Another Bobby Herrick poem. This one is about an alternate version of the game Bobbing for Apples called chop-cherry.  Cherries are hung from strings and you have to get them without using your hands...  This one seems to be about something more, though... 

Chop-Cherry

Thou gav'st me leave to kiss;

Thou gav'st me leave to woo;

Thou mad'st me think, by this

And that, thou lov'dst me too.

But I shall ne'er forget

How, for to make thee merry,

Thou mad'st me chop but yet

Another snapp'd the cherry! 

So, you gave me permission to kiss you and woo you, and that made me think you liked me! So I put in ALL THIS WORK but you were just amusing yourself and you let someone else get the reward I worked for! 

Battle Cry of the Incel. 

To be fair, I am not at all sure that "cherry" was slang for virginity in the 1600s, BUT it is certainly being used as a metaphor for something more than fruit here! 

And here is Robert Herrick in the lonely, pervy flesh, rocking the perm; an incredible 'stache; a nose that CERTAINLY allowed him to smell trouble, and what the Rock was cookin', and all manner of things; and an eyebrow arch of which I am frankly envious.