To Fortune
Whilst I in prison or in court look down,
Nor beg thy favour nor deserve thy frown,
In vain malicious Fortune hast thou tried
By taking from my state to quell my pride:
Insulting girl, thy present rage abate,
And wouldst thou have my humbled, make me great.
poem by Matthew Prior
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On A Fart - Let In The House Of Commons
Reader, I was born, and cried;
I crack'd, I smelt, and so I died.
Like Julius Caesar's was my death,
Who in the senate lost his breath.
Much alike entomb'd does lie
The noble Romulus and I:
And when I died, like Flora fair,
I left the commonwealth my heir.
poem by Matthew Prior
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A Reasonable Affliction
On his death-bed poor Lubin lies:
His spouse is in despair:
With frequent sobs, and mutual cries,
They both express their care.
A different cause, says Parson Sly,
The same effect may give:
Poor Lubin fears that he may die;
His wife, that he may live.
poem by Matthew Prior
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A Flower. Painted By Simon Varelst
When famed Varelst this little wonder drew,
Flora vouchsafed the growing works to view;
Finding the painter's science at a stand,
The goddess snatch'd the pencil from his hand,
And finishing the piece, she smiling said,
Behold one work of mine that ne'er shall fade.
poem by Matthew Prior
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The Remedy Worse Than The Disease
I sent for Ratcliffe, was so ill,
That other doctors gave me over,
He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill,
And I was likely to recover.
But when the wit began to wheeze,
And wine had warm'd the politician,
Cured yesterday of my disease,
I died last night of my physician.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Wives By The Dozen
O Death how thou spoil'st the best project of life,
Said Gabriel, who still as he bury'd one wife,
For the sake of her family married her cousin;
And thus in an honest collateral line
He still married on till his number was nine,
Full sorry to die till he made up his dozen.
poem by Matthew Prior
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To A Poet Of Quality. Praising The Lady Hinchinbroke
Of thy judicious Muse's sense,
Young Hinchinbroke so very proud is,
That Sacharissa and Hortense
She looks henceforth upon as dowdies.
Yet she to one must still submit,
To dear Mamma must pay her duty;
She wonders, praising Wilmot's wit,
Thou shouldst forget his daughter's beauty.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Fatal Love
Poor Hal caught his death standing under a spout
Expecting till midnight when Nan would come out;
But fatal his patience, as cruel the dame,
And cursed was the weather that quench'd the man's flame.
Whoe'er thou art that reads these moral lines,
Make love at home, and go to bed betimes.
poem by Matthew Prior
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To Cloe
Whilst I am scorch'd with hot desire,
In vain cold Friendship you return,
Your drops of pity on my fire,
Alas! but make it fiercer burn.
Ah! would you have the flame suppress'd,
That kills the heart it heats too fast,
Take half my passion to your breast,
The rest in mine shall ever last.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Bibo And Charon
When Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat,
As full of Champagne as an egg's full of meat,
He waked in the boat, and to Charon he said,
He would be row'd back, for he was not yet dead.
Trim the boat and sit quiet, stern Charon replied,
You may have forgot - you were drunk when you died.
poem by Matthew Prior
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