Charles Cotton poems

Charles Cotton(28 April 1630 - 16 February 1687 / Beresford Hall)

The Evening Quatrains

- by Charles Cotton 28

THE Day's grown old, the fainting Sun
Has but a little way to run,
And yet his steeds, with all his skill,
Scarce lug the chariot down the hill.
With labour spent, and thirst opprest,
Whilst they strain hard to gain the West,
From fetlocks hot drops melted light,
Which turn to meteors in the Night.
The shadows now so long do grow,
That brambles like tall cedars show,
Mole-hills seem mountains, and the ant
Appears a monstrous elephant.
A very little little flock
Shades thrice the ground that it would stock;
Whilst the small stripling following them
Appears a mighty Polypheme.
These being brought into the fold,
And by the thrifty master told
, [counted]
He thinks his wages are well paid,
Since none are either lost or stray'd.
Now lowing herds are each-where heard,
Chains rattle in the villian's
yard, [farmer]
The cart's on tail set down to rest,
Bearing on high the cuckold's crest.
The hedge is stripp'd, the clothes brought in,
Nought's left without should be within,
The bees are hiv'd, and hum their charm,
Whilst every house does seem a swarm.
The cock now to the roost is press'd:
For he must call up all the rest;
The sow's fast-pegg'd within the sty,
To still her squeaking progeny.
Each one has had his supping mess*, [meal]
The cheese is put into the press,
The pans and bowls are scalded all,
Rear'd up against the milk-house wall.
And now on benches all are sat
In the cool air to sit and chat,
Till Phoebus, dipping in the West,
Shall lead the World the way to rest.

To Coelia

- by Charles Cotton 28

WHEN, Coelia, must my old day set,
And my young morning rise
In beams of joy so bright as yet
Ne'er bless'd a lover's eyes?
My state is more advanced than when
I first attempted thee:
I sued to be a servant then,
But now to be made free.

I've served my time faithful and true,
Expecting to be placed
In happy freedom, as my due,
To all the joys thou hast:
Ill husbandry in love is such
A scandal to love's power,
We ought not to misspend so much
As one poor short-lived hour.

Yet think not, sweet! I'm weary grown,
That I pretend such haste;
Since none to surfeit e'er was known
Before he had a taste:
My infant love could humbly wait
When, young, it scarce knew how
To plead; but grown to man's estate,
He is impatient now.