Charles Cotton was an English poet and writer, best known for translating the work of Michel de Montaigne from the French, for his contributions to The Compleat Angler, and for the highly influential The Compleat Gamester which has been attributed to him.
He was born at Beresford Hall on the border of Derbyshire and Staffordshire. His father, Charles Cotton the Elder, was a friend of Ben Jonson, John Selden, Sire Henry Wottonand Izaak Walton. The son was apparently not sent to university, but was tutored by Ralph Rawson, one of the fellows ejected from Brasenose College, Oxford, in 1648. Cotton travelled in France and perhaps in Italy, and at the age of ... more »
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Charles Cotton Poems
The Evening Quatrains
THE Day's grown old, the fainting Sun Has but a little way to run, And yet his steeds, with all his skill,
The Angler's Ballad
AWAY to the brook, All your tackle out look, Here's a day that is worth a year's wishing; See that all things be right,
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?
WHY, let is run! who bids it stay? Let us the while be merry; Time there in water creeps away, With us it posts in sherry.
The Night Quatrains
THE Sun is set, and gone to sleep With the fair princess of the deep, Whose bosom is his cool retreat,
The Noon Quatrains
THE Day grows hot, and darts his rays From such a sure and killing place, That half this World are fain to fly The danger of his burning eye.
The Morning Quatrains
THE cock has crow'd an hour ago, 'Tis time we now dull sleep forego; Tir'd Nature is by sleep redress'd, And Labour's overcome by rest.
Comments about Charles Cotton
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
The Evening Quatrains
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 ...