How can you memorize all these gods — god must be atheist
I have not. Google enables me to sound erudite on the Internet, and nobody knows I am actually a dog. But yes, in English literature too, there are period where knowing a fair amount about Greek and Roman culture would help one out a lot. I had no opportunity to study Classics until long after I completed a degree in English Lit.
"Baroque style" covered / smothered European culture. Holy Mother Church had a lot to do with it -- being educated meant learning Latin and Greek, whatever one's native language was. There are poets I find dry-as-dust who were all about marinating their output in classical referents. John Dryden comes to mind. (He was hot stuff in his day among the literati).
Still, some of the baroque era poets were among my favorites, though, on a poem by poem basis. Here's one by George Herbert (1593 -1633) which is "metaphysical" (an English Baroque form):
Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lacked any thing.
A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:
Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?
Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
So I did sit and eat.
John Donne, (1572-1631)
Song
Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil’s foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy’s stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be’st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true, and fair.
If thou find’st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet;
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.
The English baroque (or other) poets I like do not lard their lines with classical bric-a-brac.