Poems on several occasions written by Charles Cotton ...
Cotton, Charles, 1630-1687.

On the great Eater of Grays-Inn.

OH! for a lasting wind! that I may rail
At this vile Cormorant, this Harpey-male:
That can, with such an hungry hast, devour
A years Provision in one short liv'd hour.
Prodigious Calf of Pharoah's lean-rib'd Kine,
That swallowest Beef, at every bit a Chine!
Yet art thy self so meagre, Men may see
Approaching Famine in thy Phys'nomy.
The World may yet rejoice, thou wer't not one
That shar'd Ioves mercy with Deucalion;
Had he thy grinders trusted in that boat,
Where the whole Worlds Epitomy did float,
Page  350Clean, and Unclean had dy'd, th' Earth found a wan
Of her irrational Inhabitant:
'Tis doubted, there their fury had not cea'st,
But of the humane part too made a Feast;
How Fruitless then had been Heaven's charity?
No Man on earth had liv'd, nor Beast, but thee.
Had'st thou been one to feed upon the fare
Stor'd by old Priam for the Grecian War;
He, and his Sons had soon been made a prey;
Troys ten years Siege had lasted but one day;
Or thou might'st have preserv'd them, and at once
Chop't up Achilles, and his Mirmydons.
Had'st thou been Bell, sure thou had'st sav'd the Lives
O' th' cheating Priests, their Children, and their Wive,
But at this rate, 'twould be a heavy tax
For Hercules himself to cleanse thy jakes.
Oh! that kind Heav'n to give to thee would please
An Estridge-maw, for then we should have peace.
Swords then, or shining Engines would be none,
No Guns, to thunder out Destruction:
Page  351
No rugged Shackles would be extant then,
Nor tedious Grates, that limit free-born Men,
But thy Gut-pregnant womb thy paws do fill
With spoils of Natures good, and not her ill.
'Twas th' Inns of Courts improvidence to own
Thy Wolvish Carcase for a Son 'o th' Gown:
The danger of thy jaws, they ne're foresaw;
For, Faith! I think thou hast devour'd the Law.
No wonder th' art complain'd of by the Rout,
When very Curs begin to smell thee out.
The reasons Southwark rings with howlings, are,
Because thou rob'st the Bull-Dogs of their share.
Beastly Consumer! not content to eat
The wholesome quarters destin'd for Mens meat,
But Excrement, and all: nor wilt thou ate
One entrail, to inform us of thy Fate:
Which will, I hope, be such an ugly Death,
As hungry Beggars, can in cursings breath,
Page  352
But I have done, my Muse can scold no more,
She to the Bearwards Sentence turns thee o're,
And, since so great's thy Stomach's tyranny,
For writing this, pray God, thou eat not me.