Complete Works of Matthew Prior

by Matthew Prior

  Well! Phaedra liv’d as chastly as she could!

  For she was father Jove’s own flesh and blood.

  Her awkward love indeed was oddly fated;

  She and her Poly were too near related;

  And yet that scruple had been laid aside,

  If honest Theseus had but fairly died:

  But when he came, what needed he to know,

  But that all matters stood in statu quo? 30

  There was no harm, you see; or grant there were,

  She might want conduct; but he wanted care.

  ’Twas in a husband little less than rude,

  Upon his wife’s retirement to intrude —

  He should have sent a night or two before,

  That he would come exact at such an hour;

  Then he had turn’d all tragedy to jest;

  Found every thing contribute to his rest;

  The picquet-friend dismiss’d, the coast all dear,

  And spouse alone impatient for her dear. 40

  But if these gay reflections come too late,

  To keep the guilty Phaedra from her fate;

  If your more serious judgment must condemn

  The dire effects of her unhappy flame:

  Yet, ye chaste matrons, and ye tender fair,

  Let love and innocence engage your care:

  My spotless flames to your protection take;

  And spare poor Phaedra for Ismena’s sake.

  EPILOGUE TO LUCIUS.

  TRAGEDY, BY MRS. DE LA RIVIERE MANLEY.

  SPOKEN BY MRS. HORTON.

  THE female author who recites to-day,

  Trusts to her sex the merit of her play.

  Like father Bayes securely she sits down:

  Pit, box, and gallery, ‘gad! all’s our own.

  In ancient Greece, she says, when Sappho writ,

  By their applause the critics show’d their wit,

  They tun’d their voices to her lyric string;

  Though they could all do something more than sing.

  But one exception to this fact we find;

  That booby Phaon only was unkind, 10

  An ill-bred boat-man, rough as waves and wind.

  From Sappho down through all succeeding ages,

  And now on French, or on Italian stages,

  Rough satires, sly remarks, ill natur’d speeches,

  Are always aim’d at poets that wear breeches.

  Arm’d with Longinus, or with Rapin, no man

  Drew a sharp pen upon a naked woman.

  The blustering bully, in our neighbouring streets,

  Scorns to attack the female that he meets:

  Fearless the petticoat contemns his frowns: 20

  The hoop secures whatever it surrounds.

  The many-colour’d gentry there above,

  By turns are rul’d by tumult, and by love:

  And while their sweet-hearts their attention fix,

  Suspend the din of their damn’d clattering sticks.

  Now, Sirs —

  To you our author makes her soft request,

  Who speak the kindest, and who write the best,

  Your sympathetic hearts she hopes to move,

  From tender friendship, and endearing love 30

  If Petrarch’s Muse did Laura’s wit rehearse;

  And Cowley flatter’d dear Orinda’s verse;

  She hopes from you — Pox take her hopes and fears:

  I plead her sex’s claim; what matters hers?

  By our full power of beauty we think fit

  To damn this salique law impos’d on wit:

  We’ll try the empire you so long have boasted;

  And if we are not prais’d, we’ll not be toasted.

  Approve what one of us presents to-night;

  Or every mortal woman here shall write: 40

  Rural, pathetic, narrative, sublime,

  We’ll write to you, and make you write in rhyme;

  Female remarks shall take up all your time.

  Your time, poor souls! we’ll take your very money;

  Female third days shall come so quick upon ye.

  As long as we have eyes, or hands, or breath,

  We’ll look, or write, or talk you all to death.

  Unless you yield for better and for worse:

  Then the she-pegasus shall gain the course;

  And the gray mare will prove the better horse.

  THE THIEF AND CORDELIER.

  BALLAD TO THE TUNE OF KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY.

  Who has e’er been at Paris must needs know the Greve,

  The fatal retreat of th’ unfortunate brave,

  Where honour and justice most oddly contribute

  To ease heroes’ pains by a halter and gibbet.

  Derry down, down, hey derry down.

  There death breaks the shackles which force had put on,

  And the hangman completes what the judge but begun;

  There the Squire of the Pad and the Knight of the Post

  Find their pains no more baulk’d and their hopes no more cross’d.

  Derry down, down, hey derry down.

  Great claims are there made, and great secrets are known,

  And the king, and the law, and the thief, has his own;

  But my hearers cry out, What a deuce dost thou ail?

  Cut off thy reflections, and give us thy tale.

  Derry down, down, hey derry down.

  ’Twas there then in civil respect to harsh laws,

  And for want of false witness to back a bad cause,

  A Norman, though late, was obliged to appear,

  And who to assist but a grave cordelier?

  Derry down, down, hey derry down.

  The Squire, whose good grace was to open the scene,

  Seem’d not in great haste that the show should begin,

  Now fitted the halter, now traversed the cart,

  And often took leave, but was loath to depart.

  Derry down, down, hey derry down.

  What frightens you thus, my good son? says the priest?

  You murder’d, are sorry, and have been confest.

  O Father! my sorrow will scarce save my bacon,

  For ’twas not that I murder’d but that I was taken.

  Derry down, down, hey derry down.

  Pough! pr’ythee ne’er trouble thy head with such fancies;

  Rely on the aid you shall have from Saint Francis;

  If the money you promis’d be brought to the chest,

  You have only to die, let the Church do the rest.

  Derry down, down, hey derry down.

  And what will folks say if they see you afraid?

  It reflects upon me as I knew not my trade:

  Courage, Friend, for to-day is your period of sorrow,

  And things will go better believe me to-morrow.

  Derry down, down, hey derry down.

  To-morrow, our hero reply’d, in a fright,

  He that’s hang’d before noon ought to think of to-night;

  Tell your beads, quoth the priest, and be fairly truss’d up,

  For you surely to-night shall in Paradise sup.

  Derry down, down, hey derry down.

  Alas! quoth the Squire, howe’er sumptuous the treat,

  Parbleu! I shall have little stomach to eat;

  I should therefore esteem it great favour and grace

  Would you be so kind as to go in my place.

  Derry down, down, hey derry down.

  That I would, quoth the Father, and thank you to boot,

  But our actions, you know, with our must suit;

  The feast I proposed to you I cannot taste,

  For this night, by our Order, is marked for a fast.

  Derry down, down, hey derry down.

  Then turning about to the hangman, he said,

  Despatch me, I pr’ythee, this troublesome blade,

  For thy cord and my cord both equally tie,

  And we live by the gold
for which other men die.

  Derry down, down, hey derry down.

  AN EPITAPH

  Interr’d beneath this marble stone,

  Lie saunt’ring Jack and idle Joan.

  While rolling threescore years and one

  Did round this globe their courses run;

  If human things went ill or well;

  If changing empires rose or fell;

  The morning passed, the evening came,

  And found this couple still the same.

  They walk’d and eat, good folks: what then?

  Why then they walk’d and eat again:

  They soundly slept the night away:

  They did just nothing all the day:

  And having buried children four,

  Would not take pains to try for more.

  Nor sister either had, nor brother:

  They seemed just tallied for each other.

  Their moral and economy

  Most perfectly they made agree:

  Each virtue kept its proper bound,

  Nor tresspass’d on the other’s ground.

  Nor fame, nor censure they regarded:

  They neither punish’d nor rewarded.

  He cared not what the footmen did:

  Her maids she neither prais’d nor chid:

  So ev’ry servant took his course;

  And bad at first, they all grew worse.

  Slothful disorder fill’d his stable;

  And sluttish plenty deck’d her table.

  Their beer was strong; their wine was port;

  Their meal was large; their grace was short.

  They gave the poor the remnant-meat

  Just when it grew not fit to eat.

  They paid the church and parish rate;

  And took, but read not the receipt;

  For which they claim’d their Sunday’s due,

  Of slumb’ring in an upper pew.

  No man’s defects sought they to know;

  So never made themselves a foe.

  No man’s good deeds did they commend;

  So never rais’d themselves a friend.

  Nor cherish’d they relations poor:

  That might decrease their present store:

  Nor barn nor house did they repair:

  That might oblige their future heir.

  They neither added, nor confounded:

  They neither wanted, nor abounded.

  Each Christmas they accompts did clear;

  And wound their bottom through the year.

  Nor tear, nor smile did they employ

  At news of public grief, or joy.

  When bells were rung, and bonfires made,

  If asked they ne’er denied their aid:

  Their jug was to the ringers carried,

  Whoever either died, or married.

  Their billet at the fire was found,

  Whoever was depos’d or crown’d.

  Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise;

  They would not learn, nor could advise;

  Without love, hatred, joy, or fear,

  They led — a kind of — as it were:

  Nor wish’d nor car’d, nor laugh’d nor cry’d:

  And so they liv’d; and so they died.

  HORACE, LIB. I, EPIST. IX, IMITATED

  TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE MR. HARLEY

  Dear Dick, how e’er it comes into his head,

  Believes, as firmly as he does his creed,

  That you and I, sir, are extremely great;

  Though I plain Mat, you minister of state.

  One word from me, without all doubt, he says,

  Would fix his fortune in some little place.

  Thus better than myself, it seems, he knows

  How far my interest with my patron goes;

  And answering all objections I can make,

  Still plunges deeper in his dear mistake.

  From this wild fancy, sir, there may proceed

  One wilder yet, which I foresee, and dread;

  That I, in fact, a real interest have,

  Which to my own advantage I would save,

  And, with the usual courtier’s trick, intend

  To serve myself, forgetful of my friend.

  To shun this censure, I all shame lay by,

  And make my reason with his will comply;

  Hoping, for my excuse, ‘twill be confest,

  That of two evils I have chose the least.

  So, sir, with this epistolary scroll,

  Receive the partner of my inmost soul:

  Him you will find in letters, and in laws

  Not unexpert, firm to his country’s cause,

  Warm in the glorious interest you pursue,

  And, in one word, a good man and a true.

  TO MR. HARLEY, WOUNDED BY GUISCARD 1711

  — ab ipso

  Ducit opes animumque ferro. Hor.

  In one great now, superior to an age,

  The full extremes of nature’s force we find:

  How heavenly virtue can exalt, or rage

  Infernal how degrade the human mind.

  While the fierce monk does at his trial stand,

  He chews revenge, abjuring his offence:

  Guile in his tongue, and murder in his hand,

  He stabs his judge, to prove his innocence.

  The guilty stroke and torture of the steel

  Infix’d, our dauntless Briton scarce perceives:

  The wounds his country from his death must feel,

  The patriot views; for those alone he grieves.

  The barbarous rage that durst attempt thy life,

  Harley, great counsellor, extends thy fame;

  And the sharp point of cruel Guiscard’s knife,

  In brass and marble carves thy deathless name.

  Faithful assertor of thy country’s cause,

  Britain with tears shall bathe thy glorious wound;

  She for thy safety shall enlarge her laws,

  And in her statutes shall thy worth be found.

  Yet ‘midst her sighs she triumphs on the hand

  Reflecting, that diffused the public wo;

  A stranger to her altars, and her land;

  No son of hers could meditate this bow,

  Meantime thy pain is gracious Anna’s are:

  Our queen, our saint, with sacrificing breath,

  Softens thy anguish: in her powerful prayer

  She pleads thy service, and forbids thy death.

  Great as thou art, thou canst demand no more,

  O breast bewail’d by earth, preserved by Heaven?

  No higher can aspiring virtue soar:

  Enough to thee of grief and fame is given.

  AN EXTEMPORE INVITATION

  TO THE EARL OF OXFORD, LORD HIGH TREASURER, MDCCXII.

  MY LORD,

  OUR weekly friends to-morrow meet

  At Matthew’s palace, in Duke-street,

  To try for once, if they can dine

  On bacon-ham, and mutton-chine.

  If wearied with the great affairs,

  Which Britain trusts to Harley’s cares,

  Thou, humble statesman, mayst descend,

  Thy mind one moment to unbend,

  To see thy servant from his soul

  Crown with thy health the’sprightly bowl: 10

  Among the guests, which e’er my house

  Receiv’d, it never can produce

  Of honour a more glorious proof —

  Though Dorset us’d to bless the roof.

  TWO BEGGARS

  DISPUTING THEIR RIGHT TO AN OYSTER THEY HAD FOUND; A LAWYER THUS DECIDES THE CAUSE.

  BLIND plaintiff, lame defendant share

  The friendly laws, impartial care.

  A shell for him, a shell for thee,.

  The middle is the lawyer’s fee.

  So judge’s word decrees the people’s right,

  And Magna Charta is a paper kite.

  HUMAN LIFE.

  WHAT trifling coil do we poor mortals k
eep;

  Wake, eat, and drink, evacuate, and sleep.

  PROLOGUE FOR DELIA’S PLAY.

  LADIES, to you with pleasure we submit,

  This early offspring of a virgin wit.

  From your good nature nought our auth’ress fears,

  Sure you’ll indulge, if not the muse, her years,

  Freely the praise she may deserve bestow,

  Pardon, not censure, what yon can’t allow!

  Smile on the work, be to her merits kind,

  And to her faults, Whate’er they are, be blind.

  Let critics follow rules, she boldly writes

  What nature dictates, and what love indites. 10

  By no dull form her queens and ladies move,

  But court their heroes, and agnize their love.

  Poor maid! she’d have (what e’en no wife would crave)

  A husband love his spouse beyond the grave:

  And from a second marriage to deter,

  Shews you what horrid things stepmothers art

  Howe’er, to constancy the prise she gives,

  And tho’ the sister dies the brother lives.

  Blest with success, at last, he mounts a throne.

  Enjoys at once his mistress and a crown. 20

  Learn, ladies, then, from Lindaraxa’s fate,

  What great rewards on virtuous lovers wait.

  Learn too, if heav’n and fate should adverse prove,

  (For fate and heav’n don’t always smile on love)

  Learn with Zelinda to be still the same,

  Nor quit your first for any second flame,

  Whatever fate, or death, or life, be given,

  Dare to be true, submit the rest to Heaven.

  AMARYLLIS. A PASTORAL.

  IT was the fate of an unhappy swain.

  To love a nymph, the glory of the plain;

  In vain he daily did his courtship move,

  The nymph was haughty, and disdain’d to love.

  Each morn as soon as the sun’s golden ray