An Epistle. Desiring The Queen's Picture, But Left Unfinished, By The Sudden News Of Her Majesty's Death
The train of equipage and pomp of state,
The shining sideboard and the burnish'd plate,
Let other ministers, great Anne, require,
And partial fall thy gift to their desire.
To the fair Portrait of my sovereign dame,
To that alone eternal be my claim.
My bright defender, and my dread delight,
If ever I found favour in thy sight;
If all the pains that for thy Britain's sake
My past has took, or future life may take,
Be grateful to my Queen, permit my prayer,
And with this gift reward my total care.
Will thy indulgent hand, fair Saint, allow
The boon? and will thy ear accept the vow?
That, in despite of age, of impious flame,
And eating Time, thy Picture, like thy fame,
Entire may last, that, as their eyes survey
The semblant shade, men yet unborn may say,
Thus great, thus gracious, look'd Britannia's Queen,
Her brow thus smooth, her look was thus serene;
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poem by Matthew Prior
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Cloe Jealous
Forbear to ask Me, why I weep;
Vext Cloe to her Shepherd said:
'Tis for my Two poor stragling 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 Pow'r that Beauty has:
But why did no peculiar Verse
Describe one Charm of Cloe's Face?
The Glass, which was at Venus' Shrine,
With such Mysterious Sorrow laid:
The Garland (and You call it Mine)
Which show'd how Youth and Beauty fade.
Ten thousand Trifles light as These
Nor can my Rage, nor Anger move:
She shou'd be humble, who wou'd please:
And She must suffer, who can love.
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poem by Matthew Prior
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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.
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poem by Matthew Prior
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Merry Andrew
Sly Merry Andrew, the last Southwark fair;
(At Bartholomew he did not much appear,
So peevish was the dict of the Mayor)
At Southwark, therefore, as his tricks he show'd,
To please our masters, and his friends the crowd,
A huge neat's tongue he in his right hand held,
His left was with a good black pudding fill'd.
With a grave look, in this odd equipage,
The clownish mimic traverses the stage:
Why, how now, Andrew! cries his brother droll,
To-day's conceit methinks is something dull.
Come on, Sir, to our worthy friends explain
What does your emblematic Worship mean?
Quoth Andrew, honest English let us speak;
Your emble - (what d'ye call it?) is Heathen Greek.
To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretence;
Learning thy talent is, but mine is sense.
That busy fool I was which thou art now,
Desirous to correct, not knowing how,
Blaming or praising things as I thought fit:
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poem by Matthew Prior
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The Lady's Looking-Glass
Celia and I the other Day
Walk'd o'er the Sand-Hills to the Sea:
The setting Sun adorn'd the Coast,
His Beams entire, his Fierceness lost:
And, on the Surface of the Deep,
The Winds lay only not asleep:
The Nymph did like the Scene appear,
Serenely pleasant, calmly fair:
Soft fell her words, as flew the Air.
With secret Joy I heard Her say,
That She would never miss one Day
A Walk so fine, a Sight so gay.
But, oh the Change! the Winds grow high:
Impending Tempests charge the Sky:
The Lightning flies: the Thunder roars:
And big Waves lash the frighten'd Shoars.
Struck with the Horror of the Sight,
She turns her Head, and wings her Flight;
And trembling vows, She'll ne'er again
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poem by Matthew Prior
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The Wandering Pilgrim
Will Piggot must to Coxwould go,
To live, alas! in want,
Unless Sir Thomas say, No, no,
Th' allowance is too scant.
The gracious knight full well does weet
Ten farthings ne'er will do
To keep a man each day in meat;
Some bread to meat is due.
A Rechabite poor Will must live,
And drink of Adam's ale;
Pure element no life can give,
Or mortal soul regale.
Spare diet and spring-water clear
Physicians hold are good:
Who diets thus need never fear
A fever in the blood.
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poem by Matthew Prior
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On Beauty. A Riddle
Resolve Me, Cloe, what is This:
Or forfeit me One precious Kiss.
'Tis the first Off-spring of the Graces;
Bears diff'rent Forms in diff'rent Places;
Acknowledg'd fine, where-e'er beheld;
Yet fancy'd finer, when conceal'd.
'Twas Flora's Wealth, and Circe's Charm;
Pandora's Box of Good and Harm:
'Twas Mars's Wish, Endymion's Dream;
Apelles' Draught, and Ovid's Theme.
This guided Theseus thro' the Maze;
And sent Him home with Life and Praise.
But This undid the Phrygian Boy;
And blew the Flames that ruin'd Troy.
This shew'd great Kindness to old Greece,
And help'd rich Jason to the Fleece.
This thro' the East just Vengeance hurl'd,
And lost poor Anthony the World.
Injur'd, tho' Lucrece found her Doom;
This banish'd Tyranny from Rome.
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poem by Matthew Prior
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Love Disarmed
Beneath a Myrtle's verdant Shade
As Cloe half asleep was laid,
Cupid perch'd lightly on Her Breast,
And in That Heav'n desir'd to rest:
Over her Paps his Wings He spread:
Between He found a downy Bed,
And nestl'd in His little Head.
Still lay the God: The Nymph surpriz'd,
Yet Mistress of her self, devis'd,
How She the Vagrant might inthral,
And Captive Him, who Captives All.
Her Boddice half way She unlac'd:
About his Arms She slily cast
The silken Bond, and held Him fast.
The God awak'd; and thrice in vain
He strove to break the cruel Chain;
And thrice in vain He shook his Wing,
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poem by Matthew Prior
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For my own Monument
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 int'rest and freedom agree;
In public employments industrious and grave,
And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he!
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poem by Matthew Prior
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An Ode : While Blooming Youth And Gay Delight
While blooming youth and gay delight
Sit on thy rosy cheeks confess'd,
Thou hast, my dear, undoubted right
To triumph o'er this destined breast.
My reason bends to what thy eyes ordain;
For I was born to love, and thou to reign.
But would you meanly thus rely
On power you know I must obey?
Exert a legal tyranny,
And do an ill because you may?
Still must I thee, as Atheists Heaven, adore;
Not see thy mercy, and yet dread thy power?
Take heed, my dear: youth flies apace;
As well as Cupid, Time is blind:
Soon must those glories of thy face
The fate of vulgar beauty find:
The thousand Loves, that arm thy potent eye,
Must drop their quivers, flag their wings, and die.
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poem by Matthew Prior
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