Complete Works of Matthew Prior

by Matthew Prior

  Moor. But while they were passing were you not under a thousand apprehensions? did you not suffer continual uneasiness in the frequent changes that happened as well in the Church as the State?

  Vicar. O Sir, you may be sure I did. Every body in the World we lived in had his troubles. I had one particularly that vexed me mightily, the constant fear of losing my Vicarage.

  Moor. But I presume you armed your self against that fear.

  Vicar. As well as I could, Sir, when I could not do as well as I would. When ever any New Law was made, or any harsh injunction laid upon Us, away went I to some Clergyman or Casuist, who had a good repute for knowing these kind of things, and had himself already Conformed as to the Point in Question, and then I constantly carryed with me an inclination to be convinced, which you know goes a great way in matters of this Nature, so admitting some things for Truth without too Scrupelously seeking for Demonstration, and suppressing some Scruples that might have been troublesome, I generally made the best of a bad Market, and got safe again out of the Briars. If things looked bad one Day, I took a Cup of Ale, and hoped they would be better the next. When they were very bad indeed, I concluded they were at the worst, and so, I tell you, on I jogged.

  Moor. How naturally the shallowness of thought in this Man increases the severity of it in the mind of a Wiser. When we refled upon our past life, we find it charged with Misfortunes Sc Calamities yet we never think of the future but in expectation of receiving it enlivened with Joy and Pleasure. Our whole life all this while runs like the Current of the same river and to morrow comes on just as Yesterday past. Why therefore do we rather hope than dread what it may bring. Why do we not think in Probability it may rather make us Miserable than happy. How is it that scarse enjoying the present we turn our thought forward into a Futurity which the Will of Heaven in equal Wisdom and Pitty conceals from Us. A Futurity which may never be Ours. But suppose it shal be, suppose it coming with all the Delights that the wildness of our imagination can suggest, is it more durable, is it less rapid in its course than the past, than the Present? while I am speaking it Approaches, and while I say it is arrived alas! it is gone for ever. The fugitive never Stops, but we insensibly follow it till Tyred with the Pursuit we fall into our Grave.

  Vicar. Aye, Sir, that Grave is an ugly Hole indeed, when once a Man slips his foot into it —

  Moor. You have therefore thought of Death. I am glad at least I have brought you to this point.

  Vicar. Thought of Death, Sir, aye that I have and with different Agitations; Sometimes indeed with pleasure enough, for my Parish is of large Extent, and when any body Dyed in it that could pay, I had my Dirge and Funeral Fees, besides my share of Ale, and the Company of a good many Friends, but then again when any of the Poor Dyed, whom I was forced to Bury gratis, especially in the Winter time, Egad I did not like Death at all.

  Moor. Droll, But did Y ou think of your own Death?

  Vicar. Very seldom, and yet in good Troth often enough. You must know I buryed my Parish twice over, and I strove to forget every one of them as soon as I had laid them under ground. There was one Clergyman in my Neighborhood, who was four Years older than my self, it was a great Comfort to me to see him in good health, Egad I lived at him. At ‘other side I never was heartily a Friend to my Curate, a lusty young Fellow with large white Teeth, and a Vermillion countenance. I was always Apprehensive He’d out-live Me, and put in to be my Successor.

  Moor. Strange illusion! of which even Death has not cured this Wretch. We join Ideas which in Nature have no Coherence. Our fear of Death gives us not sufficient leasure to consider what Death it self is, we dare hardly think that it makes a total separation between our Mind and our Body, and we provide for our selves after Death as if that separation was not to be made. Are we to be Alive and dead at the same time, idle and superstitious way of thinking. What was it to this Vicar who should enjoy that Benefice from which death has given him an Eternal Quietus. Yet with great regret he considers who shal possess the Tythes when he shal neither have Mouth to receive, or Stomach to digest the Produce. Yet with £nvy he mentions that Man that shal present the Insense, or Adorn the Altar, when he shal neither Smell nor See. But why should I blame him of an Error common to us All. Have not the greatest Men desired Monuments to be raised over them that the Eyes of all the World might Gaze on, whilst they have Dreaded the thought that the Dust and bones hid under the Marble should be exposed to the sight of their Surviving Friends.

  Vicar. Why, really Sir Thomas you Preach very well. I begin to think there was some mistake in our Affairs while we were in the troublesome World, of which you are talking. We should e’en have changed Stations: If you had been Vicar of Bray, the Parish might have had excellent Sermons, and if I had been Chancellor of England, I’ll give You my word for it, I would have kept my Head.

  Moor. Tis true, Vicar, we seldom are in life what we seem to be, I jested upon the Bench, yet guarded my Actions with the greatest Severity, and You looked gravely and talked Morally in the Pulpit, without any resolution of living up to that you taught others. But, Vicar, what you all this while call Living is only breathing! Did you think Morality was but Discourse, and that Virtue was not to be Preached; Did not you know that you must never prefer your Safety to your Honor, or your life to your Conscience. You said just now that you had not forgot all Your Latin. Does not Horace tell You that neither the Fury of ill Men in Power, nor the frown of a Tyrant can alter the Resolution, or bend the Mind of a Man strictly just and Honest; And Juvenal that the Phalaris stood by with his brazen Bull, the Martyr should rather suffer flames and racks than deviate the least Tittle from Truth.

  On her own worth true Virtue rear’d

  Nor dreads Disgrace nor seeks Reward:

  But from Her higher Orb looks greatly down,

  On Life or Death, a Scaffold or a Throne.

  Vicar. The meer fancy of Poets. Ah, Sir Thomas You were always too much Addicted to that sort of reading; It is that which spoiled You: £gad those whimsical Fellows have done more Mischief in leading the Minds of Grave People aside by a contempt of Pain and Death, than in Debauching Youth by too lively Descriptions of Love and pleasure.

  Moor. Come on then, You shal have some Prose-Men; I’ll oblige You if I can: has not Plato writ a whole Volume to explain how reasonable it is that we should rather consent to Dye than to do Evil? and has not his Imitator Cicero, commenting upon the Text instructed us that we ought to be so far from fearing Death, in this Case, that we should contemn it. What think you of those Minds who have Practised what these Philosophers taught of Socrates, Aristides and Phocion, of Regulus, Cato, and Brutus.

  Vicar. Heathens all, by the Mass, meer Pagan-Heathens; Why, I read Plutarch when I was a Young Man at the University, he is full of these People. When ever the Game did not go well they always threw up the Cards, and when they could not Rule the World, a Whim took them that they would stay no longer in it.

  Moor. Now the Doctor is in for it indeed. Well, I hope Sir, since you came from the University you have read of some Christians who were of this Opinion too: What think You of St. Polycarp, who asserted what he thought was Truth in opposition to the whole Roman Empire, and a growing Herecy in the Church, and that too in the moment he was sure to Dye for it? What of St. Cyprian, who when an Equivoque, or Silence it self might have Saved him, scorned even Deliberation, in asserting his belief, and confirmed it in the presence of an angry Judge, and in the sight of that Fire, that was to consume him to Ashes?

  Vicar. Aye, Sir, and St. Lawrence, was broiled on a Gridiron, and St. Protatius had his Head cutt off, and a great many more of them: Lord, there were Females too, St. Ursula, was Stabbed with a Ponyard, and St. Catharine, broke upon the Wheel. Why do you think I am not acquainted with the Army of Martyrs. Oh Dear, Sir, as their Holy-days came, I constantly did em Justice in my Prones, and set out their Relifts to be kissed by the People. I had one Sermon, you must know, that Mutatis Mutandis did the business for a great many of them. I clapt all the prai
se I could upon the Saint of the Day, and e’en let the rest of the Calendar take it as they thought fit.

  Moor. And as you shewed, I suppose, you respected the Relifts of these Saints.

  Vicar. Aye marry did I.

  Moor. Without any resolution to follow their Example.

  Vicar. Lord, Sir, They had their way to Heaven, which in all Probability was the nearest; You were pleased to take That: very well, I nad mine, it was a little about indeed, why very well again. We were not all born to be Martyrs any more than Lord Mayors.

  Moor. Strange is it, that after all that the Wisest and best Men of all ages have said and writ on this subject of life and Death, the great Majority of Mankind stil argue and aft like this poor Vicar; Look you, my old Friend, without entering into any particular point of Religion, I repeat to you that we have Two Duties, One to our Selves, the other to the Public. That either as we are Private Persons or Members of the Common-weale, our life on many occasions is not our own, and our Conscience only is the Guide, and the Disposer of it.

  Vicar. Well, I do not flatly deny any thing of all this, Sir Thomas, but methinks we should make those many Occasions as few as we could. There may be certain times for those Tryals, but one must not practice such dangerous experiments every Day: Our Duty may be divided, and in that case, sure we may take the safer side. You that were a Judge know very well that we are obliged to conform to the Laws of the Land. S’ life it would be a foolish mistake if a Man should fancy himself a Martyr to Religion and to be trussed up in Fact as a Tray tor to the King: A Man has but one Neck, Sir Thomas, and I tell you it is a Point that requires very Mature deliberation. Good, Sir, do but think a little.

  Moor. Vicar, the beginning, Progress, and Ultimate end of Thought can only inform You that Truth is to direct all your Actions, and that Courage is only a Virtue as assistant to truth, else you wander without a Guide, and you Sail without a Compass. Your Caution is but Cowardise, and your Discretion is double dealing. You scarce can pardon your own fears to your self, your Conscience therefore must direct your Prudence, and your Virtue must be entire, that your Honor may be unspotted: Life and Death all this while are only things Accidental.

  Vicar, Why, Sir Thomas, whilst you talk thus you are laying the Model of your own Utopia. Pray, is not self preservation a Principle of Nature, is it necessary that we run absolutely into danger, should we not comparatively weigh Circumstances, and may not some precepts which you take litteraly be understood figuratively; and consequently may not some points be essential only in relation to some Cases, and may not others be indifferent, as to other Cases.

  Moor. What are you got into the old Cant, lurking behind distinctions, and arming your self with Adverbs. I said, I would not enter into any dispute of Religion with You. But take this at least as an Axiom that your Schoolmen have not only obscured their Texts, but perverted them. Essentially, Absolutely, formally, comparatively, and Figuratively, well ingrafted upon Interest and Knavery, are sufficient to divide Five Nations, and Produce as many Heresies. Once for all, Vicar, every Man is obliged to suiter for what is right, as to oppose what is Unjust.

  Vicar, Aye, but a Man may be mistaken in what he thinks right, as I fancy you were in the Point of the Popes Supremacy. Odzooks, Sir, to venture ones Head in a doubtful Cause —

  Moor, Suppose the Cause to be false, when I had done my best to inform my self that what I did was Legal, and could not be convinced to the contrary, I had nothing more to do but to submit my self to the Severity of the New made Law, and leave the Event to the Creator, and disposer of the World.

  So, I tell Thee again that an upright and unprejudiced Conscience is our Plea before any Humane Tribunal: Nay more, that it is at once the Law and Judge, that must Convict or absolve Us, in all we do or think, though we stand Accused by no Man. The Basis of all Religion and the Bond of all Society is founded upon this Stript adherence to Truth, and constancy of Mind in the defence of it.

  Conscience, Thou solemn Bond of mutual Trust,

  Prop to the Weak, and Anchor of the Just;

  Fructif’rous root whence Humane Virtues spring;

  The Subjects Law, and safety of the King:

  Appeas’d by Thee our inward Tumults cease,

  Thou guid’st our feet into the Paths of Peace:

  Fair Polar-Star, whose influencing ray

  Directs our Toil, and manifests our way;

  Shou’d Cloud or Storm, Thy Radiant beams obscure,

  Yet those who hope they follow Thee are sure

  Tho tyr’d by Day, they pass the Night in rest

  And going wrong, yet seeking Right are blest.

  Vicar. Are those Verses of your own making Sir Thomas? Why really they are pretty enough, but a little hobling in the Number.

  Moor. They are not so much to be Praised as Practised, I’l give you some Translated from a Greek Epigram, that carry almost the same sense in a Style something more flowing.

  While thro the depth of Lifes tempestuous Sea

  Our little Vessel cutts its destin’d way.

  Now prosp’rous Insolence and wealthy pride

  With rolling Billows swell the impetuous Tyde;

  Now Care and Want in hollow Tumult roar,

  Threatning to dash us on the dangerous Shoar.

  Around us and above with various rage

  High and low Deaths alternately engage;

  Fix’d on a Rock upon the distant strand

  Bright Virtue does our Only Pharos stand

  Contemns the Winds and Waves, and points us safe to Land.

  Vicar. Pough, hang it, this is all but the second part of the same Tune. Come, Sir Thomas, you us’d to love a little

  Mirth. I’l repeat You some Verses that a Friend of mine brought down hither with him t’other Day.

  Your Conscience, like a fiery Horse,

  Shou’d never know his Native force:

  Ride him but with a Moderate Rein,

  And stroke him down with Worldly gain;

  Bring him, by management and Art,

  To every thing that made him start;

  And strive by just degrees to settle

  His Native warmth and height of Mettle:

  And when by use he once has gott

  An honest, canting, low-Church trott,

  He’ll carry You thro thick and thin,

  Secure, the dirty, to your Inn.

  But if you give the Beast his head,

  And prick and spur him to his speed;

  The Creature strait begins his Tricks,

  He foams and neighs, Curvets and kicks,

  He getts the Bitt between his Teeth,

  And runs his Rider out of breath:

  Better you n’er had rid abroad;

  For, down you come — as sure as Laud,

  We may be allowed to know who Laud was the he lived since our time, for sure it is as reasonable for Us here to mention a Man that was born since we Dyed, as it is for those in the t’other World to quote an Author that dyed before they were born.

  Moor, I like your Thought well enough, But the Verses you repeat were meant as a Satyr upon that very sort of Conduct, which you seem to commend. You put me in mind of some German Doctors that reading the little book of my Friend Erasmus fancyed he wrote a real Panegyric upon the folly he was laughing at.

  Vicar, Be it as it will with the Verses: In honest Prose I must tell You Sir Thomas, that in difficult Cases there must be some Allowances made; if we cannot bring the Thing to our Conscience, we must e’en strive as much as we can to bring our Conscience to the thing. Mahomet and the Mountain seems to me not so unreasonable as some strait laced Christians think it.

  Moor. Go to, I contemn you now. If I were to be Chancellor again, and had all the Livings in the Land to dispose of, I would not give You One of them.

  Vicar. If all succeeding Chancellors were of your Opinion your Livings would want incumbents, and the Civil Power might send out Press-gangs for Priests to supply the Parishes.

  Moor. How few are
there that dare exercise a true and active Virtue; Too many there are indeed that live in the open Practice of impudent and successful Vice. But the Mass of Mankind is a Multitude of such Animals as this Vicar, the burthen of the Earth who only feed upon it without endeavoring to deserve the Bread it affords them, Wretches who in having done nothing have done ill. Negative ldeots who sink into folly for want of Courage to aspire to Wisdom, and think nothing bad or hurtful except they may be Indicted for it at the next Quarter Sessions. This Man now would not commit any famous Wickedness, yet how far is he from being Honest. Well, as bad as they say the World is, there are fifty idle Knaves in it, for one determined Villain.

  Vicar. Twenty for One is as much as I can grant You: Ah Sir Thomas, tis very true what Doctor Burnet says of You, that you mixed too much Gall with your Ink. Egad with these Maximes of Yours you would raise both Court and Country against You, and if You had as many heads as there are Loops upon your Gowne, You might run a fair risk to have them all cutt off.

  Moor. What then? many better heads would have been confirmed by my Example, and I should have answered the end for which life was given me.

  Vicar. Admirable Philosophy indeed, in the Practice of which You were beheaded on Tower-Hill at Fifty three, whereas I without it dyed quietly in my bed at Eighty. Since I am afraid your Lordship may grow Angry, which would be a little against Your Stoicism, and since You may be assured that if we were to live again I should never be a Convert to your Doctrine, it is time we should part.

  Moor. With all my heart, Adieu Thou poor Spirited Parson with thy Vicarage of Bray.

  Vicar. Thou great Chancellor of England without a head, Adieu.

  A Dialogue between Oliver Cromwell, and his Porter.

  Oliver, What a Vicisitude does Death bring to Human Affairs? No Coronet on my head, no Purple Robe to my back, no Scepter in my hand! neither Heralds before, nor Guards around me! justled and affronted by a Hundred Cavalier Ghosts whom I ruined in t’ other World! His’t and scoffed at by as many Republican Spirits whom! Cajoled and Betrayed! —