Cupid Turned Ploughman. - From Moschus
His lamp, his bow, and quiver laid aside,
A rustic wallet o'er his shoulders tied,
Sly Cupid, always on new mischief bent,
To the rich field and furrow'd tillage went;
Like any ploughman toil'd the little god,
His tune he whistled, and his wheat he sow'd;
Then sat and laugh'd, and to the skies above
Raising his eye, he thus insulted Jove:
Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain,
And as I bid you let it shine or rain,
Else you again beneath my yoke shall bow,
Feel the sharp goad, and draw the servile plough;
What once Europa was Nannette is now.
poem by Matthew Prior
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The Flies
Say, sire of insects, mighty Sol,
(A fly upon the chariot-pole
Cries out) What blue-bottle alive
Did ever with such fury drive?
Tell Beelzebub, great Father, tell,
(Says th' other perch'd upon the wheel)
Did ever any mortal fly
Raise such a cloud of dust as I?
My judgement turn'd the whole debate;
My valour sayed the sinking state.
To talk two idle buzzing things,
Toss up their heads, and stretch their wings.
But let the truth to light be brought,
This neither spoke nor th' other fought;
No merit in their own behaviour;
Both raised but by their party's favour.
poem by Matthew Prior
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To A Person Who Wrote Ill, And Spake Worse, Against Me
Lie Philo untouch'd, on my peaceable shelf,
Nor take it amiss that so little I heed thee;
I've no envy to thee, and some love to myself:
Then why should I answer since first I must read thee?
Drunk with Helicon's waters, and double-brew'd bub,
Be a linguist, a poet, a critic, a wag;
To the solid delight of thy well-judging club,
To the damage alone of thy bookseller Brag.
Pursue me with satire; what harm is there in't?
But from all viva voce reflection forbear;
There can be no danger from what thou shalt print,
There may be a little from what thou may'st swear.
poem by Matthew Prior
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An Ode : While From Our Looks, Fair Nymph, You Guess
While from our looks, fair nymph, you guess
The secret passions of our mind;
My heavy eyes, you say, confess
A heart to love and grief inclined.
There needs, alas! but little art
To have this fatal secret found;
With the same ease you threw the dart,
'Tis certain you can show the wound.
How can I see you, and not love,
While you as opening cast are fair?
While cold as northern blasts you prove,
How can I love, and not despair?
The wretch in double fetters bound
Your potent mercy may release;
Soon, if my love but once were crown'd,
Fair prophetess, my grief would cease.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Cupid Mistaken
As after noon, one summer's day,
Venus stood bathing in a river;
Cupid a-shooting went that way,
New strung his bow, new fill'd his quiver.
With skill he chose his sharpest dart:
With all his might his bow he drew:
Swift to his beauteous parent's heart
The too well-guided arrow flew.
I faint! I die! the Goddess cry'd:
O cruel, could'st thou find none other,
To wreck thy spleen on? Parricide!
Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.
Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak;
Indeed, Mamma, I did not know ye:
Alas! how easy my mistake?
I took you for your likeness, Cloe.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Songs Set To Music: 18. Set By Mr. Smith
Since we your husband daily see
So jealous out of season,
Phillis, let you and I agree
To make him so with reason.
I'm vex'd to think that every night
A sot, within thy arms,
Tasting the most divine delight,
Should sully all your charms.
While, fretting, I must lie alone,
Cursing the powers divine,
That undeservedly have thrown
A pearl unto a swine.
Then, Phillis, heal my wounded heart,
My burning passion cool;
Let me at least in thee have part
With thy insipid fool.
[...] Read more
poem by Matthew Prior
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Songs Set To Music: 23. Set By Mr. De Fesch
Well, I will never more complain,
Or call the Fates unkind;
Alas! how fond it is, how vain!
But self-conceitedness does reign
I nevery mortal mind.
'Tis true, they long did me deny,
Nor would permit a sight;
I raged, for I could not espy,
Or think that any harm could lie
Disguised in that delight.
At last, my wishes to fulfil,
They did their power resign,
I saw her, but I wish I still
Had been obedient to their will,
And they not unto mine.
Yet I by this have learn'd the wit
Never to grieve or fret;
[...] Read more
poem by Matthew Prior
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The New Year's Gift To Phyllis
The circling months begin this day
To run their yearly ring,
And long-breathed time, which ne'er will stay,
Refits his wings and shoots away,
It round again to bring.
Who feels the force of female eyes
And thinks some nymph divine,
Now brings his annual sacrifice,
Some pretty toy or neat device
To offer at her shrine.
But I can pay no offering
To show how I adore,
Since I have but a heart to bring —
A downright foolish, faithful thing,
And that you had before.
Yet we may give, for custom sake,
What will to both be new:
My constancy a gift I'll make
And in return of it will take
Some levity from you.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Songs Set To Music: 24. Set By Mr. C. R.
Cloe beauty has, and wit,
And an air that is not common;
Every charm in her does meet,
Fit to make a handsome woman.
But we do not only find
Here a lovely face or feature,
For she's merciful and kind;
Beauty's answer'd by good-nature.
She is always doing good,
Of her favours never sparing,
And, as all good Christians should,
Keeps poor mortals from despairing.
Jove the power knew of her charms,
And that no man could endure 'em,
So providing 'gainst all harms,
Gave to her the power to cure 'em,
[...] Read more
poem by Matthew Prior
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Cupid In Ambush
It oft to many has successful been
Upon his arm to let his mistress lean,
Or with her airy fan to cool her heat,
Or gently squeeze her knees, or press her feet.
All public sports to favour young desire,
With opportunities like this conspire.
E'en where his skill the gladiator shows,
With human blood where the Arena flows,
There oftentimes Love's quiver-bearing boy
Prepares his bow and arrows to destroy;
While the spectator gazes on the sight,
And sees them wound each other with delight;
While he his pretty mistress entertains,
And wagers with her who the conquest gains,
Slily the god takes aim, and hits his heart,
And in the wounds he sees he bears his part.
poem by Matthew Prior
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