Andrew Marvell

The Coronet

When for the Thorns with which I long, too long,

Crown of thorns

Opening with the crucifixion—Marvell's speaker is trying to make amends for Christ's suffering by weaving a better crown. The guilt is personal: 'I...have crown'd.'

With many a piercing wound,
My Saviours head have crown'd,
I seek with garlands to redress that Wrong:
Through every Garden, every Mead,
I gather flow'rs (my fruits are only flow'rs),
Dismantling all the fragrant Towers

Pastoral repurposing

He's recycling his old love poetry—the 'fragrant Towers' of elaborate hair arrangements from shepherdess poems. Dismantling secular verse to make sacred.

That once adorned my Shepherdesses head.
And now when I have summ'd up all my store,

Self-deception admitted

The parenthetical catches himself in the act. He knows he's fooling himself even as he does it—the pride is conscious.

Thinking (so I my self deceive)
So rich a Chaplet thence to weave
As never yet the king of Glory wore:
Alas I find the Serpent old

Eden's serpent

The 'Serpent old' is Satan from Genesis. He's discovered that pride has infected the poem itself—vanity coiled inside his devotional offering.

That, twining in his speckled breast,
About the flow'rs disguis'd does fold

Fame and self-interest

Not abstract sin—specific motives. The serpent brings 'Fame and Interest' (reputation and self-advancement). Even religious poetry can be careerist.

With wreaths of Fame and Interest.
Ah, foolish Man, that would'st debase with them
And mortal Glory, Heaven's Diadem!
But thou who only could'st the Serpent tame,
Either his slipp'ry knots at once untie,

The prayer's choice

Either/or ultimatum to God: untangle the pride from the poem, or destroy the whole thing. He's willing to let his 'curious frame' (artful construction) shatter.

The prayer's choice

Either/or ultimatum to God: untangle the pride from the poem, or destroy the whole thing. He's willing to let his 'curious frame' (artful construction) shatter.

And disintangle all his winding Snare:
Or shatter too with him my curious frame:
And let these wither, so that he may die,
Though set with Skill and chosen out with Care.
That they, while Thou on both their Spoils dost tread,
May crown thy Feet, that could not crown thy Head.

Paradoxical victory

Final reversal: the failed crown becomes acceptable when trampled underfoot by Christ. What couldn't crown the head can crown the feet—humiliation as success.

Source Wikipedia Poetry Foundation

Reading Notes

The Poem That Eats Itself

CONTEXT Marvell wrote this around 1650-52, during his transition from secular to religious poetry. He'd spent the 1640s writing pastoral love poems—shepherdesses, gardens, elaborate compliments. This poem is about what happens when you try to repurpose that skillset for God.

The setup is deceptively simple: guilty about Christ's crown of thorns, the speaker will weave a better crown from flowers. But line 6 drops the problem: 'my fruits are only flow'rs'—he's a poet, not a saint. All he has to offer are words, arrangements, artifice. The 'fragrant Towers' he's dismantling are the elaborate poetic structures from his old love poems, literally the piled-up hair arrangements he used to praise in verse.

Then comes the trap. At line 13, he discovers 'the Serpent old' coiled inside his devotional offering. This isn't metaphorical—Marvell means Satan has literally infected the poem with 'Fame and Interest' (literary reputation and career advancement). The religious poem is secretly a bid for recognition. The speaker catches himself wanting to out-crown all previous religious poets: 'As never yet the king of Glory wore.' Even the apology is competitive.

The final movement (lines 19-26) is the prayer, and it's structurally brilliant. Marvell gives God an either/or choice: 'Either...untie' the serpent from the poem, 'Or shatter too with him my curious frame.' That word 'curious' means both 'carefully made' and 'strange'—he's acknowledging the poem's artfulness while offering to destroy it. The craft itself might be the problem.

The closing paradox resolves nothing and everything. If the flowers can't crown Christ's head (too tainted by pride), let them 'crown thy Feet' instead—trampled underfoot along with the serpent. The poem succeeds by failing, becomes acceptable through humiliation. It's Marvell's most ruthlessly self-aware performance: a poem about how poems can't do what this poem is trying to do.

How Serpents Work in Poetry

CONTEXT The serpent isn't decoration—it's the poem's structural principle. Marvell uses 'twining' and 'fold' and 'winding Snare' to describe both Satan and the poem's own elaborate construction. The form mirrors the content: the verse itself coils and loops.

Watch how the serpent appears. Line 13: 'I find the Serpent old'—discovered, not invited. Line 14: 'twining in his speckled breast'—already inside, integrated into the structure. Line 15: 'About the flow'rs disguis'd does fold'—camouflaged, indistinguishable from the legitimate material. You can't tell where poem ends and serpent begins. That's the point.

The 'slipp'ry knots' of line 20 describe both Satan's deceptions and poetic technique—the intricate verbal patterns that make verse memorable. When Marvell asks God to 'disintangle all his winding Snare,' he's asking for the impossible: remove the artifice from the artifact. The poem's beauty and its corruption are the same thing.

This connects to Reformation theology—the idea that human works are always tainted by sin, that nothing we make can earn salvation. Marvell takes it literally: even the poem attempting to express that doctrine is infected by the pride of its own cleverness. The only solution is the final image: both serpent and poem crushed under Christ's feet, their 'Spoils' (remains) repurposed as a carpet. Not purified—destroyed and recycled.