Complete Works of Matthew Prior

by Matthew Prior

  And I happen’d to pass by,

  Which way did you cast your eye?

  But when your cares to her you sing,

  Yet dare not tell her whence they spring

  Does it not more afflict your heart,

  That in those cares she bears a part? 10

  When you the flowers for Cloe twine,

  Why do you to her garland join

  The meanest bud that foils from mine?

  Simplest of swains! the world may see,

  Whom Cloe loves, and who loves me.

  THE GARLAND.

  THE pride of every grove I chose,

  The violet sweet, and lily fair,

  The dappled pink, and blushing rose,

  To deck my charming Cloe’s hair.

  At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place

  Upon her brow the various wreath;

  The flowers less blooming than her face,

  The scent less fragrant than her breath.

  The flowers she wore along the day:

  And every nymph and shepherd said, 10

  That in her hair they look’d more gay

  Than glowing in their native bed.

  Undrest at evening when she found

  Their odours lost, their colours past;

  She chang’d her look, and on the ground

  Her garland and her eye she cast.

  That eye dropt sense distinct and dear,

  As any Muse’s tongue could speak,

  When from its lid a pearly tear

  Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. 20

  Dissembling what I knew too well,

  My love, my life, said I, explain

  This change of humour: pr’ythee, tell:

  That falling tear — What does it mean?

  She sigh’d; she smil’d: and to the flowers

  Pointing, the lovely moralist said,

  See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,

  See yonder, what a change is made.

  Ah me! the blooming pride of May,

  And that of beauty are but one: 30

  At morn both flourish bright and gay,

  Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.

  At dawn poor Stella danc’d and sung;

  The amorous youth around her bow’d;

  At night her fated knell was rung;

  I saw, and kiss’d her in her shroud.

  Such as she is, who died to-day,

  Such I, alas! may be to-morrow;

  Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display

  The justice of thy Cloe’s sorrow. 40

  THE LADY WHO OFFERS HER LOOKING

  GLASS TO VENUS.

  VENUS, take my votive glass;

  Since I am not what I was,

  What from this day I shall be,

  Venus, let me never see.

  CLOE JEALOUS.

  FORBEAR to ask me, why I weep;

  Vex’d doe to her shepherd said;

  ’Tis for my two poor straggling sheep

  Perhaps, or for my squirrel dead.

  For mind I what you late have writ?

  Your subtle questions, and replies;

  Emblems, to teach a female wit

  The ways, where changing Cupid flies.

  Your riddle purpos’d to rehearse

  The general power that beauty has; 10

  But why did no peculiar verse

  Describe one charm of doe’s face?

  The glass, which was at Venus’ shrine,

  With such mysterious sorrow laid:

  The garland (and you call it mine)

  Which allow’d how youth and beauty fade.

  Ten thousand trifles light as these

  Nor can my rage, nor anger move:

  She should be humble, who would please;

  And she must suffer, who can love. 20

  When in my glass I chanc’d to look;

  Of Venus what did I implore?

  That every grace which thence I took,

  Should know to charm my Damon more.

  Reading thy verse; Who heeds, said I,

  If here or there his glances flew?

  O free for ever be his eye,

  Whose heart to me is always true.

  My bloom indeed, my little flower

  Of beauty quickly lost its pride; 30

  For, sever’d from its native bower,

  It on thy glowing bosom died.

  Yet car’d I not what might presage,

  Or withering wreath, or fleeting youth;

  I^ove I esteem’d more strong than age,

  And time less permanent than truth.

  Why then I weep, forbear to know:

  Fall uncontroll’d my tears, and free:

  O Damon! ’tis the only woe

  I ever yet conceal’d from thee. 40

  The secret wound with which I bleed

  Shall lie wrapt up, e’en in my hearse;

  But on my tombstone thou shalt read

  My answer to thy dubious verse.

  ANSWER TO CLOE JEALOUS.

  IN THE SAME STYLE. THE AUTHOR SICK.

  YES, fairest proof of Beauty’s power,

  Dear idol of my panting heart,

  Nature points this my fatal hour:

  And I have liv’d; and we must part.

  While now I take my last adieu,

  Heave thou no sigh, nor shed a tear;

  Lest yet my half-clos’d eye may view

  On earth an object worth its care.

  From Jealousy’s tormenting strife

  For ever be thy bosom freed: 10

  That nothing may disturb thy life,

  Content I hasten to the dead.

  Yet when some better-fated youth

  Shall with his amorous parley move thee;

  Reflect one moment on his truth,

  Who, dying thus, persists to love thee.

  A BETTER ANSWER.

  DEAR Cloe, how blubber’d is that pretty face;

  Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl’d:

  Pr’ythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says)

  Let us e’en talk a little like folks of this world.

  How canst thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy

  The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping?

  Those looks were design’d to inspire love and joy:

  More ord’nary eyes may serve people for weeping.

  To be vext at a trifle or two that I writ,

  Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong:

  You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit: 11

  Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a song?

  What I speak, my fair Cloe, and what I write, shows

  The difference there is betwixt nature and art:

  I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose:

  And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart

  The god of us verse-men (you know, child) the sun,

  How after his journeys he sets up his rest:

  If at morning o’er earth ’tis his fancy to run;

  At night he declines on his Thetis’s breast. 20

  So when I am wearied with wandering all day,

  To thee, my delight, in the evening I come:

  No matter what beauties I saw in my way;

  They were but my visits, but thou art my home.

  Then finish, dear Cloe, this pastoral war;

  And let us, like Horace and Lydia, agree:

  For thou art a girl as much brighter than her,

  As he was a poet sublimer than me.

  PALLAS AND VENUS.

  AN EPIGRAM.

  THE Trojan swain had judg’d the great dispute,

  And beauty’s power obtain’d the golden fruit;

  When Venus, loose in all her naked charms,

  Met Jove’s great daughter clad in shining arms.

  The wanton goddess view’d the warlike maid

  From head to foot, and tauntingly she said:

  Yield, sister; rival, y
ield: naked, you see,

  I vanquish: guess how potent I should be,

  If to the field I came in armour drest;

  Dreadful, like thine, my shield, and terrible my crest!

  The warrior goddess with disdain replied: 11

  Thy folly, child, is equal to thy pride:

  Let a brave enemy for once advise,

  And Venus (if ’tis possible) be wise.

  Thou to be strong must put off every dress;

  Thy only armour is thy nakedness:

  And more than once, (or thou art much belied)

  By Mars himself that armour has been tried.

  TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN IN LOVE.

  A TALE.

  FROM public noise and factious strife,

  From all the busy ills of life,

  Take me, my Celia, to thy breast,

  And lull my wearied soul to rest.

  For ever, in this humble cell,

  Let thee and I, my fair one, dwell;

  None enter else, but Love — and he

  Shall bar the door, and keep the key.

  To painted roofs, and shining spires

  (Uneasy seats of high desires) 10

  Let the unthinking many crowd,

  That dare be covetous and proud:

  In golden bondage let them wait,

  And barter happiness for state.

  But oh! my Celia, when thy swain

  Desires to see a court again,

  Mav Heaven around this destin’d head

  The choicest of its curses shed!

  To sum up all the rage of Fate,

  In the two things I dread and hate; 20

  Mayst thou be false, and I be great!

  Thus, on his Celia’s panting breast,

  Fond Celadon his soul express’d;

  While with delight the lovely maid

  Receiv’d the vows, she thus repaid:

  Hope of my age, joy of my youth,

  Blest miracle of love and truth!

  All that could e’er be counted mine,

  My love and life, long since are thine:

  A real joy I never knew, 30

  Till I believ’d thy passion true:

  A real grief I ne’er can find,

  Till thou prov’st perjur’d or unkind.

  Contempt, and poverty, and care,

  All we abhor, and all we fear,

  Blest with thy presence, I can bear.

  Through waters, and through flames I’ll go,

  Sufferer and solace of thy woe:

  Trace me some yet unheard-of way,

  That I thy ardour may repay; 40

  And make my constant passion known,

  By more than woman yet has done.

  Had I a wish that did not bear

  The stamp and image of my dear;

  I’d pierce my heart through every vein,

  And die to let it out again.

  No; Venus shall my witness be,

  (If Venus ever lov’d like me)

  That for one hour I would not quit

  My shepherd’s arms, and this retreat, 50

  To be the Persian monarch’s bride,

  Partner of all his power and pride;

  Or rule in regal state above,

  Mother of gods, and wife of Jove.

  O happy these of human race!

  But soon, alas! our pleasures pass.

  He thank’d her on his bended knee;

  Then drank a quart of milk and tea:

  And leaving her ador’d embrace,

  Hasten’d to court, to beg a place. 60

  While she, his absence to bemoan,

  The very moment he was gone,

  Call’d Thyrsis from beneath the bed!

  Where all this time he had been hid.

  MORAL.

  While men have these ambitious fancies

  And wanton wenches read romances;

  Our sex will — What? out with it. Lie

  And theirs in equal strains reply.

  The moral of the tale I sing

  (A posy for a wedding ring)

  In this short verse will be confin’d:

  Love is a jest, and vows are wind.

  AN ENGLISH PADLOCK.

  MISS DANAE, when fair and young,

  (As Horace has divinely sung)

  Could not be kept from Jove’s embrace

  By doors of steel, and walls of brass.

  The reason of the thing is clear;

  Would Jove the naked truth aver:

  Cupid was with him of the party,

  And show’d himself sincere and hearty:

  For, give that whipster but his errand,

  He takes my Lord Chief Justice’ warrant; 10

  Dauntless as death away he walks;

  Breaks the doors open; snaps the locks;

  Searches the parlour, chamber, study;

  Nor stops till he has culprit’s body.

  Since this has been authentic truth,

  By age deliver’d down to youth;

  Tell us, mistaken husband, tell us,

  Why so mysterious, why so jealous?

  Does the restraint, the bolt, the bar

  Make us less curious, her less fair? 20

  The spy, which does this treasure keep,

  Does she ne’er say her prayers, nor sleep?

  Does she to no excess incline?

  Does she fly music, mirth, and wine?

  Or have not gold and flattery power

  To purchase one unguarded hour?

  Your care does farther yet extend:

  That spy is guarded by your friend. —

  But has this friend nor eye, nor heart?

  May he not feel the cruel dart, 30

  Which, soon or late, all mortals feel?

  May he not, with too tender zeal,

  Give the fair pris’ner cause to see,

  How much he wishes she were free?

  May he not craftily infer

  The rules of friendship too severe,

  Which chain him to a hated trust;

  Which make him wretched, to be just?

  And may not she, this darling she,

  Youthful and healthy, flesh and blood, 40

  Easy with him, ill us’d by thee,

  Allow this logic to be good?

  Sir, will your questions never end?

  I trust to neither spy nor friend.

  In short, I keep her from the sight

  Of every human face. — She’ll write. —

  From pen and paper she’s debarr’d. —

  Has she a bodkin and a card?

  She’ll prick her mind. — She will, you say:

  But how shall she that mind convey? 50

  I keep her in one room: I lock it:

  The key (look here) is in this pocket.

  The key-hole, is that left? most certain,

  She’ll thrust her letter through — Sir Martin.

  Dear angry friend, what must be done?

  Is there no way? — There is but one.

  Send her abroad; and let her see,

  That all this mingled mass, which she,

  Being forbidden, longs to know,

  Is a dull farce, an empty show,

  Powder, and pocket-glass, and beau;

  A staple of romance and lies,

  False tears, and real perjuries:

  Where sighs and looks are bought and sold;

  And love is made but to be told;

  Where the fat bawd, and lavish heir

  The spoils of ruin’d beauty share:

  And youth, seduc’d from friends and fame,

  Must give up age to want and shame.

  Let her behold the frantic scene, 70

  The women wretched, false the men:

  And when, these certain ills to shun,

  She would to thy embraces run;

  Receive her with extended arms:

  Seem more delighted with her charms:

  Wait on her to the park and play:

  Put on good humour; ma
ke her gay:

  Be to her virtues very kind;

  Be to her faults a little blind;

  Let all her ways be unconfin’d; 80

  And clap your padlock — on her mind.

  HANS CARVEL.

  HANS CARVEL, impotent and old,

  Married a lass of London mould:

  Handsome? enough; extremely gay:

  Lov’d music, company, and play:

  High flights she had, and wit at will;

  And so her tongue lay seldom still:

  For in all visits who but she,

  To argue, or to repartee?

  She made it plain, that human passion

  Was order’d by predestination; 10

  That if weak women went astray,

  Their stars were more in fault than they;

  Whole tragedies she had by heart;

  Enter’d into Roxana’s port:

  To triumph in her rival’s blood,

  The action certainly was good.

  How like a vine young Ammon curl’d!

  Oh that dear conqueror of the world!

  She pitied Betterton in age,

  That ridicul’d the god-like rage. 20

  She, first of all the town, was told,

  Where newest India things were sold:

  So in a morning, without bodice,

  Slipt sometimes out to Mrs. Thody’s;

  To cheapen tea, to buy a screen:

  What else could so much virtue mean?

  For to prevent the least reproach,

  Betty went with her in the coach.

  But when no very great affair

  Excited her peculiar care, 30

  She without fail was wak’d at ten;

  Drank chocolate, then slept again:

  At twelve she rose; with much ado

  Her clothes were huddled on by two;

  Then, does my lady dine at home?

  Yes, sure; — but is the Colonel come?

  Next, how to spend the afternoon,

  And not come home again too soon;

  The Change, the City, or the Play,

  As each was proper for the day: 40

  t A turn in summer to Hyde Park,

  When it grew tolerably dark.

  Wife’s pleasure causes husband’s pain:

  Strange fancies come in Hans’s brain: