Margaret Cavendish
Margaret Cavendish Poems
Death is the cook of Nature; and we find
Meat dressèd several ways to please her mind.
Some meats she roasts with fevers, burning hot,
...
Small Atomes of themselves a World may make,
As being subtle, and of every shape:
And as they dance about, fit places finde,
...
If Infinites of Worlds, they must be plac'd
At such a distance, as between lies waste.
If they were joyned close, moving about,
...
If all the World were a confused heape,
What was beyond? for this World is not great:
We finde it Limit hath, and Bound,
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ALthough we at a distance stand; if great
The Fire be, the Body through will heat.
Yet those sharpe Atomes we do no perceive;
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WHY Earth's not apt to move, but slow and dull,
Is, Atomes flat no Vacuum hath but full.
That Forme admits no empty place to bide
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As darknesse a privation is of Light;
That's when the Optick Nerve is stopt from Light:
So Death is even a cessation in
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A Figure Spherical, the Motion's so,
Streight Figures in a darting Motion go:
As severall Figures in small Atomes bee,
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LIfe is a Fire, and burnes full hot,
But when Round watry Atomes power have got:
Then do they quench Lifes Atomes out,
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All that doth flow we cannot liquid name
Or else would fire and water be the same;
But that is liquid which is moist and wet
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IF Atomes all are of the selfe same Matter;
As Fire, Aire, Earth, and Water:
Then must their severall Figures make all Change
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SOme factious Atomes will agree, combine,
They strive some form'd Body to unjoyne.
The Round beate out the Sharpe: the Long
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THE reason, why Aire doth so equall spred,
Is Atomes long, at each end ballanced.
For being long, and each end both alike,
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ALL pointed Atomes to Life do tend
Whether pointed all or at one end.
Or whether Round, are set like to a Ring;
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IN Infinites no Center can be laid,
But if the World has Limits, Center's made.
For whatsoe're's with Circumference fac'd,
...
If any Philosophers have written of these Subjects, as I
make no question, or doubt, but they have, of all that
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THose Atomes loosely joyn'd, do not remaine
So long as those, which Closenesse do maintaine.
Those make all things i'th World ebb, and flow;
...
JUst at the Center is a point that'ssmall,
Those Atomes that are there are wedg'd in all;
They lye so close, firme in one Body binde,
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THE Branched Atomes Formes each Planted thing,
The hooked points pull out, and makes them spring,
...
When I say Atomes small, as small can bee;
I mean Quantity, quality, and Weight agree
Not in the Figure, for some may shew
...
Margaret Cavendish Biography
Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle-upon-Tyne (1623 – 15 December 1673) was an English aristocrat and a prolific writer. Born Margaret Lucas, she was the youngest sister of prominent royalists Sir John Lucas and Sir Charles Lucas. She became an attendant of Queen Henrietta Maria and travelled with her into exile in France, living for a time at the court of the young King Louis XIV. She became the second wife of William Cavendish, 1st Duke of Newcastle-upon-Tyne in 1645, when she was a marquess. Cavendish was a poet, philosopher, writer of prose romances, essayist, playwright and, some say, a tireless self-publicist, publishing under her own name at a time when most women writers published anonymously. Her writing addressed a number of topics, including gender, power, manners, scientific method, and animal protection. Her romance, The Blazing World, is one of the earliest examples of science fiction. Cavendish has been championed and criticized as a unique and groundbreaking woman writer. Samuel Pepys called her "mad, conceited and ridiculous." She rejected the Aristotelianism and mechanical philosophy of the seventeenth century. She criticized and engaged with the members of the Royal Society of London and the philosophers Thomas Hobbes, René Descartes, and Robert Boyle. She has been claimed as an advocate for animals and as an early opponent of animal testing. Cavendish was the only seventeenth century woman to publish numerous books on natural philosophy.)
The Best Poem Of Margaret Cavendish
Nature's Cook
Death is the cook of Nature; and we find
Meat dressèd several ways to please her mind.
Some meats she roasts with fevers, burning hot,
And some she boils with dropsies in a pot.
Some for jelly consuming by degrees,
And some with ulcers, gravy out to squeeze.
Some flesh as sage she stuffs with gouts, and pains,
Others for tender meat hangs up in chains.
Some in the sea she pickles up to keep,
Others, as brawn is soused, those in wine steep.
Some with the pox, chops flesh, and bones so small,
Of which she makes a French fricasse withal.
Some on gridirons of calentures is broiled,
And some is trodden on, and so quite spoiled.
But those are baked, when smothered they do die,
By hectic fevers some meat she doth fry.
In sweat sometimes she stews with savoury smell,
A hodge-podge of diseases tasteth well.
Brains dressed with apoplexy to Nature's wish,
Or swims with sauce of megrims in a dish.
And tongues she dries with smoke from stomachs ill,
Which as the second course she sends up still.
Then Death cuts throats, for blood-puddings to make,
And puts them in the guts, which colics rack.
Some hunted are by Death, for deer that's red.
Or stall-fed oxen, knockèd on the head.
Some for bacon by Death are singed, or scalt,
Then powdered up with phlegm, and rheum that's salt.
Margaret Cavendish Comments
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8/19/2026 1:53:12 AM # rel_20260813T193622Z_3aad590
