MATTHEW PRIOR

WHAT nymph should I admire or trust, But Chloe beauteous, Chloe just? What nymph should I desire to see, But her who leaves the plain for me? To whom should I compose the lay, But her who listens when I play? To whom in song repeat my cares, But her who in my sorrow shares? For whom should I the garland make, But her who joys the gift to take, And boasts she wears it for my sake? In love am I not fully blest? Lisetta, prithee tell the rest.

SURE Chloe just, and Chloe fair, Deserves to be your only care; But, when you and she to-day Far into the wood did stray, And I happened to pass by, Which way did you cast your eye? But, when your cares to her you sing, You dare not tell her whence they spring; Does it not more afflict your heart, That in those cares she bears a part? When you the flowers for Chloe twine, Why do you to her garland join The meanest bud that falls from mine? Simplest of swains! the world may see Whom Chloe loves, and who loves me.

LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band That wear the fair Miss Mary’s fetters, Were summoned by her high command To show their passions by their letters. My pen amongst the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read, Should dart their kindling fire, and look The power they have to be obey’d. Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbid me yet my flame to tell; Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion, And I may write till she can spell. For, while she makes her silkworms beds With all the tender things I swear; Whilst all the house my passion reads, In papers round her baby’s hair; She may receive and own my flame; For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She’ll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet. Then too, alas! when she shall tear The rhymes some younger rival sends, She’ll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends. For, as our different ages move, ’Tis so ordain’d (would Fate but mend it!), That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it.

THE merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrow’d name: Euphelia serves to grace my measure; But Chloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre, Upon Euphelia’s toilet lay; When Chloe noted her desire That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise; But with my numbers mix my sighs: And while I sing Euphelia’s praise, I fix my soul on Chloe’s eyes. Fair Chloe blush’d: Euphelia frown’d: I sung, and gazed: I play’d, and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around Remark’d, how ill we all dissembled.

I, my dear, was born to-day— So all my jolly comrades say: They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth, And ask to celebrate my birth: Little, alas! my comrades know That I was born to pain and woe; To thy denial, to thy scorn, Better I had ne’er been born: I wish to die, even whilst I say— ‘I, my dear, was born to-day.’ I, my dear, was born to-day: Shall I salute the rising ray, Well-spring of all my joy and woe? Clotilda, thou alone dost know. Shall the wreath surround my hair? Or shall the music please my ear? Shall I my comrades’ mirth receive, And bless my birth, and wish to live? Then let me see great Venus chase Imperious anger from thy face; Then let me hear thee smiling say— ‘Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.’

VENUS, take my votive glass: Since I am not what I was, What from this day I shall be, Venus, let me never see.

MY noble, lovely, little Peggy, Let this my First Epistle beg ye, At dawn of morn, and close of even, To lift your heart and hands to Heaven. In double duty say your prayer: Our Father first, then Notre Père. And, dearest child, along the day, In every thing you do and say, Obey and please my lord and lady, So God shall love and angels aid ye. If to these precepts you attend, No second letter need I send, And so I rest your constant friend.

AS doctors give physic by way of prevention, Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care; For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention May haply be never fulfill’d by his heir. Then take Mat’s word for it, the sculptor is paid; That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye; Yet credit but lightly what more may be said, For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie. Yet counting as far as to fifty his years, His virtues and vices were as other men’s are; High hopes he conceived, and he smother’d great fears, In a life parti-colour’d, half pleasure, half care. Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, He strove to make interest and freedom agree; In public employments industrious and grave, And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he! Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust; And whirl’d in the round as the wheel turn’d about, He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust. This verse, little polish’d, tho’ mighty sincere, Sets neither his titles nor merit to view; It says that his relics collected lie here, And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true. Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, So Mat may be kill’d, and his bones never found; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, So Mat may yet chance to be hang’d or be drown’d. If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air, To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same; And if passing thou giv’st him a smile or a tear, He cares not—yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.