Songs Set To Music: 10. Set By Mr. Smith
Why, Harry, what ails you? why look you so sad?
To think and ne'er drink will make you stark mad.
'Tis the mistress, the friend, and the bottle, old boy,
Which create all the pleasure poor mortals enjoy;
But wine of the three's the most cordial brother,
For one it relieves, and it strengthens the other.
poem by Matthew Prior
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The Dying Adrian To His Soul
Poor, little, pretty, fluttering thing,
Must we no longer live together?
And dost thou prune thy trembling wing,
To take thy flight thou know'st not whither?
Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly,
Lies all neglected, all forgot:
And pensive, wavering, melancholy,
Thou dread'st and hop'st thou know'st not what.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Partial Fame
The sturdy man, if he in love obtains,
In open pomp and triumph reigns:
The subtle woman, if she should succeed,
Disowns the honour of the deed.
Though he for all his boast is forced to yield,
Though she can always keep the field,
He vaunts his conquests, she conceals her shame:
How partial is the voice of Fame!
poem by Matthew Prior
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Epigram - Frank Carves Very Ill
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 compels him to speak,
For of late I invite him - but four times a week.
poem by Matthew Prior
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The Parallel
Prometheus, forming Mr. Day,
Carved something like a man in clay:
The mortal's work might well miscarry;
He that does heaven and earth control
Has only power to form a soul;
His hand is evident in Harry,
Since one is but a moving clod,
Th' other the lively form of God.
'Squire Wallis, you will scarce be able
To prove all poetry but fable.
poem by Matthew Prior
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On The Same Person (Who Wrote Ill, And Spake Worse, Against Me)
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.
Phoebus, give Philo o'er himself command;
Quicken his senses, or restrain his hand;
Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink;
So he may cease to write, and learn to think.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Songs Set To Music: 7. Set By Mr. De Fesch
Phillis, this pious talk give o'er,
And modesty pretend no more,
It is too plain an art:
Surely you take me for a fool,
And would by this prove me so dull
As not to know your heart.
In vain you fancy to deceive;
For truly I can ne'er believe
But this is all a sham,
Since any one may plainly see
You'd only save yourself with me,
And with another damn.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Songs Set To Music: 16. Set By Mr. Smith
Accept, my Love, as true a heart
As ever lover gave;
'Tis free (it vows) from my art,
And proud to be your slave.
Then take it kindly, as 'twas meant,
And let the giver live,
Who with it would the world have sent
Had it been his to give.
And that Dorinda may not fear
I e'er will prove untrue,
My vows shall, ending with the year,
With it begin a new.
poem by Matthew Prior
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A Dutch Proverb
Fire, Water, Woman, are Man's Ruin;
Says wise Professor Vander Bruin.
By Flames a House I hir'd was lost
Last Year: and I must pay the Cost.
This Spring the Rains o'erflow'd my Ground:
And my best Flanders Mare was drown'd.
A Slave I am to Clara's Eyes:
The Gipsey knows her Pow'r, and flies.
Fire, Water, Woman, are My Ruin:
And great Thy Wisdom, Vander Bruin.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Fair Susan Did Her Wif-Hede Well Menteine - In Chaucer's Style
Fair Susan did her wif-hede well menteine,
Algates assaulted sore by letchours tweine;
Now, and I read aright that auncient song,
Olde were the paramours, the dame full yong.
Had thilke same tale in other guise been tolde;
Had they been young (pardie) and she been olde,
That, by St. Kit, had wrought much sorer tryal,
Full merveillous, I wrote, were swilk denyal.
poem by Matthew Prior
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