Complete Works of Matthew Prior

by Matthew Prior

  Cutts is in Meeter something harsh to read,

  Place me the Valiant Gouram in his stead:

  Let the Intention make the Number good,

  Let generous Sylvius speak for honest Wood.

  And tho’ rough Churchill scarce in Verse will stand,

  So as to have one Rhime at his Command,

  With Ease the Bard reciting Blenheim’s Plain

  May close the Verse, rememb’ring but the Dane.

  I grant, old Friend, old Foe, (for such we are

  Alternate, as the Chance of Peace and War,)

  That we Poetic Folks, who must restrain

  Our measur’d Sayings in an equal Chain,

  Have Troubles utterly unknown to Those,

  Who let their Fancy loose in rambling Prose.

  For Instance now, how hard it is for Me

  To make my Matter and my Verse agree?

  In one great Day on Hochstet’s fatal Plain

  French and Bavarians twenty thousand slain;

  Push’d thro’ the Danube to the Shoars of Styx

  Squadrons eighteen, Battalions twenty six:

  Officers Captive made and private Men,

  Of these twelve hundred, of those thousands ten.

  Tents, Ammunition, Colours, Carriages,

  Cannons, and Kettle-Drums — sweet Numbers these.

  But is it thus you English Bards compose?

  With Runick Lays thus tag insipid Prose?

  And when you should your Heroes Deeds rehearse,

  Give us a Commissary’s List in Verse?

  Why Faith, Depreaux, there’s Sense in what you say:

  I told you where my Difficulty lay:

  So vast, so numerous were great Blenheim’s Spoils;

  They scorn the Bounds of Verse, and mock the Muse’s Toils.

  To make the rough Recital aptly chime,

  Or bring the Sum of Louis’ Loss to Rhime,

  ’Tis mighty hard: What Poet would essay

  To count the Streamers of my Lord Mayor’s Day?

  To number all the several Dishes drest

  By honest Lamb, last Coronation Feast?

  Or make Arithmetic and Epic meet,

  And Newton’s Thoughts in Dryden’s Stile repeat?

  O Poet, had it been Apollo’s Will,

  That I had shar’d a Portion of thy Skill,

  Had this poor Breast receiv’d the Heav’nly Beam,

  Or could I hope my Verse might reach my Theam,

  Yet, Boileau, yet the lab’ring Muse should strive,

  Beneath the Shades of Marlbro’s Wreaths to live:

  Should call aspiring Gods to bless her Choice,

  And to their Fav’rite’s Strain exalt her Voice,

  Arms and a Queen to Sing; who, Great and Good,

  From peaceful Thames to Danube’s wond’ring Flood

  Sent forth the Terror of her high Commands,

  To save the Nations from invading Hands;

  To prop fair Liberty’s declining Cause,

  And fix the jarring World with equal Laws.

  The Queen should sit in Windsor’s sacred Grove,

  Attended by the Gods of War, and Love;

  Both should with equal Zeal her Smiles implore,

  To fix her Joys, or to extend her Pow’r.

  Sudden, the Nymphs and Tritons should appear;

  And as great Anna’s Smiles dispel their Fear,

  With active Dance should her Observance claim;

  With vocal Shell should sound her happy Name.

  Their Master Thames should leave the neighb’ring Shoar,

  By his strong Anchor known, and Silver Oar;

  Should lay his Ensigns at his Sov’raign’s Feet,

  And Audience mild with humble Grace intreat.

  To Her his dear Defence he should complain,

  That whilst he blesses Her indulgent Reign,

  Whilst furthest Seas are by his Fleets survey’d,

  And on his happy Banks each India laid,

  His Breth’ren Maes, and Waal, and Rhine, and Saar

  Feel the hard Burthen of oppressive War;

  That Danube scarce retains his rightful Course

  Against two Rebel Armies neighb’ring Force:

  And all must weep sad Captives to the Sein,

  Unless unchain’d and freed by Britain’s Queen.

  The valiant Sov’raign calls Her Gen’ral forth,

  Neither recites Her Bounty, nor his Worth.

  She tells him he must Europe’s Fate redeem,

  And by that Labour merit Her Esteem:

  She bids him wait Her to the Sacred Hall,

  Shows him Prince Edward, and the conquer’d Gaul.

  Fixing the bloody Cross upon his Breast,

  Says he must Die, or succour the Distress’d;

  Placing the Saint an Emblem by his Side,

  She tells him Virtue arm’d must conquer lawless Pride.

  The Hero bows obedient, and retires;

  The Queen’s Commands exalt the Warrior’s Fires.

  His Steps are to the silent Woods inclin’d,

  The great Design revolving in his Mind:

  When to his Sight a Heav’nly Form appears,

  Her Hand a Palm, her Head a Lawrel wears.

  Me, she begins, the fairest Child of Jove,

  Below for ever sought, and bless’d above;

  Me, the bright Source of Wealth, and Power, and Fame;

  (Nor need I say, Victoria is my Name)

  Me, the great Father down to Thee has sent,

  He bids me wait at Thy distinguish’d Tent,

  To execute what Anna’s Wish would have:

  Her Subject Thou, I only am Her Slave.

  Dare then, thou much belov’d by smiling Fate;

  For Anna’s Sake, and in her Name, be Great:

  Go forth, and be to distant Nations known,

  My future Fav’rite, and my darling Son.

  At Schellenberg I’ll manifest sustain

  Thy glorious Cause; and spread my Wings again

  Conspicuous o’er thy Helm, in Blenheim’s Plain.

  The Goddess said, nor would admit Reply,

  But cut the liquid Air, and gain’d the Sky.

  His high Commission is thro’ Britain known,

  And thronging Armies to his Standard run.

  He marches thoughtful, and He speedy sails;

  (Bless him, ye Seas! and prosper him, ye Gales!)

  Belgia receives him welcome to her Shores,

  And William’s Death with lessen’d Grief deplores.

  His Presence only must retrieve that Loss:

  Marlbro to her must be what William was.

  So when great Atlas, from these low Aboads

  Recall’d, was gather’d to his Kindred Gods,

  Alcides respited by prudent Fate,

  Sustain’d the Ball, nor droop’d beneath the Weight.

  Secret and swift behold the Chief advance,

  Sees half the Empire join’d and Friend to France;

  The British General dooms the Fight: His Sword

  Dreadful he draws: The Captains wait the Word:

  Anne and St. George, the charging Hero cries;

  Shrill Echo from the neighb’ring Wood replies

  Anne and St. George. — at that auspicious Sign

  The Standards move; the adverse Armies join.

  Of eight great Hours Time measures out the Sands,

  And Europe’s Fate in doubtful Ballance stands;

  The ninth Victoria comes — o’er Marlbro’s Head

  Confess’d she sits: the Hostile Troops recede —

  Triumphs the Goddess, from her Promise free’d.

  The Eagle, by the British Lions Might

  Unchain’d and free, directs her upward Flight;

  Nor did she e’er with stronger Pinions soar

  From Tyber’s Banks, than now from Danube’s Shoar.

  Fir’d with the Thoughts which these Idea’s raise,

  And
great Ambition of my Country’s Praise,

  The English Muse should like the Mantuan rise,

  Scornful of Earth and Clouds, should reach the Skies,

  With Wonder (tho’ with Envy still) pursu’d by human Eyes.

  But we must change the Stile — just now I said,

  I ne’er was Master of the tuneful Trade,

  Or the small Genius which my Youth could boast

  In Prose and Business lyes extinct and lost;

  Bless’d, if I may some younger Muse excite,

  Point out the Game, and animate the Flight:

  That from Marseilles to Calais France may know

  As we have Conqu’rors we have Poets too;

  And either Laurel does in Britain grow.

  That, tho’ amongst our selves, with too much Heat,

  We sometimes wrangle when we should debate;

  (A consequential Ill which Freedom draws;

  A bad Effect, but from a Noble Cause:)

  We can with universal Zeal advance,

  To curb the faithless Arrogance of France.

  Nor ever shall Britannia’s Sons refuse

  To answer to thy Master, or thy Muse;

  Nor want just Subject for victorious Strains,

  While Marlbro’s Arm eternal Laurel gains,

  And where old Spencer sung, a new Elisa reigns.

  FOR THE PLAN OF A FOUNTAIN.

  On which are the Effigies of the Queen on a Triumphal Arch, the Duke of Marlborough beneath, and the chief Hivers of the World round the whole Work.

  YE active streams, where’er your waters flow,

  Let distant climes and furthest nations know,

  What ye from Thames and Danube have been taught,

  How Anne commanded, and how Marlborough fought.

  Quacunque aeterno properatis, flumina, lapsu,

  Divisis latè terris, populisque remolds,

  Dicite, nam vobis Tamisis narravit et Ister,

  Anna quid imperiis potuit, quid Marlburus armis.

  THE CHAMELEON

  As the Chameleon, who is known

  To have no colours of his own,

  But borrows from his neighbour’s hue

  His white or black, his green or blue,

  And struts as much in ready light,

  Which credit gives him upon sight,

  As if the rainbow were entail

  Settled on him and his heirs-male;

  So the young ‘squire, when first he comes

  From country school to Will’s or Tom’s,

  And equally in truth is fit

  To be a statesman or a wit,

  Without one notion of his own,

  He saunters wildly up and down,

  Till some acquaintance good or bad,

  Takes notice of a staring lad,

  Admits him in among the gang;

  They jest, reply, dispute, harangue;

  He acts and talks as they befriend him,

  Smear’d with the colours which they lend him.

  Thus merely as his fortune chances

  His merit or his vice advances.

  If haply the sect pursues

  That read and comment upon news,

  He takes up their mysterious face;

  He drinks his coffee without lace:

  This week his mimic tongue runs o’er

  What they had said the week before;

  His wisdom sets all Europe right,

  And teaches Marlborough when to fight.

  Or if it be his fate to meet

  With folks who have more wealth than wit,

  He loves cheap Port and double bub,

  And settles in the Humdrum club:

  He learns how stocks will fall or rise;

  Holds poverty the greatest vice;

  Thinks wit the bane of conversation,

  And says that learning spoils a nation.

  But if at first he minds his hits,

  And drinks Champaigne among the wits,

  Five deep he toasts the towering lasses,

  Repeats yon verse wrote on glasses:

  Is in the chair, prescribes the law,

  And lies with those he never saw.

  FROM THE GREEK,

  GREAT Bacchus, born in thunder and in fire,

  By native heat asserts his dreadful sire.

  Nourish’d near shady rills and cooling streams,

  He to the nymphs avows his amorous flames.

  To all the brethren at the Bell and Vine,

  The moral says; mix water with your wine.

  EPIGRAM.

  FRANK carves very ill, yet will palm all the meats:

  He eats more than six; and drinks more than he eats.

  Four pipes after dinner he constantly smokes;

  And seasons his whiffs with impertinent jokes.

  Yet sighing, he says, we must certainly break;

  And my cruel unkindness compells him to speak;

  For of late I invite him — but four times a week.

  ANOTHER

  TO John I ow’d great obligation;

  But John unhappily thought fit

  To publish it to all the nation:

  Sure John and I are more than quit.

  ANOTHER.

  YES, every poet is a fool:

  By demonstration Ned can show it:

  Happy, could Ned’s inverted rule

  Prove every fool to be a poet.

  ANOTHER.

  THY nags, (the leanest things alive)

  So very hard thou lov’st to drive;

  I heard thy anxious coachman say,

  It costs thee more in whips than hay.

  TO A PERSON WHO WROTE ILL, AND SPOKE WORSE AGAINST ME.

  LIE, Philo, untouch’d on my peaceable shelf;

  Nor take it amiss, that so little I heed thee:

  I’ve no envy to thee, and some love to myself:

  Then why should I answer; since first I must read thee

  Drunk with Helicon’s waters and double brew’d bub,

  Be a linguist, a poet, a critic, a wag;

  To the solid delight of thy well-judging dub,

  To the damage alone of thy bookseller Brag.

  Pursue me with satire: what harm is there in’t?

  But from all viva voce reflection forbear: 10

  There can be no danger from what thou shalt print:

  There may be a little from what thou may’st swear.

  ON THE SAME PERSON.

  WHILE, faster than his costive brain indites,

  Philo’s quick hand in flowing letters writes;

  His case appears to me like honest Teague’s,

  When he was run away with, by his legs.

  Phœbus, give Philo o’er himself command;

  Quicken his senses, or restrain his hand;

  Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink:

  So may he cease to write, and learn to think.

  QUID SIT FUTURUM CRAS FUGE QUÆRERE.

  FOR what to-morrow shall disclose,

  May spoil what you to-night propose:

  England may change, or doe stray

  Love and life are for to-day.

  A BALLAD OF THE NOTBROWNE MAYDE.

  Be it ryght, or wrong, these men among

  On women do complayne:

  Affyrmynge this, how that it is

  A labour spent in vayne,

  To love them wele; for never a dele 5

  They love a man agayne:

  For late a man do what he can,

  Theyr favour to attayne,

  Yet, yf a newe do them persue,

  Theyr first true lover than 10

  Laboureth for nought; for from her thought

  He is a banyshed man.

  I say nat nay, but that all day

  It is bothe writ and sayd

  That womans faith is, as who sayth, 15

  All utterly decayd;

  But, neverthelesse, ryght good wytnesse

  In this case might be layd,

  That they love t
rue, and continue:

  Recorde the Not-browne Mayde: 20

  Which, when her love came, her to prove,

  To her to make his mone,

  Wolde nat depart; for in her hart

  She loved but hym alone.

  Than betwaine us late us dyscus 25

  What was all the manere

  Betwayne them two: we wyll also

  Tell all the payne, and fere,

  That she was in. Nowe I begyn,

  So that ye me answere; 30

  Wherfore, all ye, that present be

  I pray you, gyve an ere.

  “I am the knyght; I come by nyght,

  As secret as I can;

  Sayinge, Alas! thus standeth the case, 35

  I am a banyshed man.”

  And I your wyll for to fulfyll

  In this wyll nat refuse;

  Trustying to shewe, in wordes fewe,

  That men have an yll use 40

  (To theyr own shame) women to blame,

  And causelesse them accuse:

  Therfore to you I answere nowe,

  All women to excuse, —

  SHE.

  Myne owne hart dere, with you what chere? 45

  I pray you, tell anone;

  For, in my mynde, of all mankynde

  I love but you alone.

  HE.

  It standeth so; a dede is do

  Wherof grete harme shall growe: 50

  My destiny is for to dy

  A shamefull deth, I trowe;

  Or elles to fle: the one must be.

  None other way I knowe,

  But to withdrawe as an outlawe, 55

  And take me to my bowe.

  Wherfore, adue, my owne hart true!

  None other rede I can:

  For I must to the grene wode go,

  Alone, a banyshed man. 60

  SHE.

  O lord, what is thys worldys blysse,

  That changeth as the mone!

  My somers day in lusty may

  Is derked before the none.

  I here you say, farewell: Nay, nay 65

  We depart nat so sone.

  Why say ye so? wheder wyll ye go?