Matthew Prior[1664-1721]To A CHILD OF QUALITY
¶Five Years Old, 1704. The Author then FortyLORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous bandThat wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,Were summoned by her high commandTo show their passions by their letters.
Matthew Prior
¶My pen amongst the rest I took,Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read,Should dart their kindling fires, and lookThe power they have to be obey'd.
¶Nor quality, nor reputation,Forbid me yet my flame to tell;Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion,And I may write till she can spell.
¶For, while she makes her silkworm bedsWith all the tender things I swear;Whilst all the house my passion reads,In papers round her baby's hair;
¶She may receive and own my flame;For, though the strictest prudes should knowShe'll pass for a most virtuous dame,And I for an unhappy poet.
¶Then , too, alas! when she shall tearThe rhymes some younger rival sends,She'll give me leave to write, I fear,And we shall still continue friends.
¶For, as our different ages move,'Tis so ordain'd (would Fate but mend it!),That I shall be past making loveWhen she begins to comprehend it.
Cloe
¶THE merchant, to secure his treasure,Conveys it in a borrow'd name:Euphelia serves to grace my measure,But Cloe is my real flame.
¶My softest verse, my darling lyreUpon Euphelia's toilet lay—When Cloe noted her desireThat I should sing, that I should play.
Lady Grisel Baillie
¶My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,But with my numbers mix my sighs;And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:I sung, and gazed; I play'd, and trembled:And Venus to the Loves aroundRemark'd how ill we all dissembled.
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 knowst 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.
Epigram
¶To JOHN I owed great obligation;But John unhappily thought fitTo publish it to all the nation,Sure John and I are more than quit.