The Old Gentry

That all from Adam first began,
None but ungodly Whiston doubts,
And that his son and his son's son
Were all but ploughmen, clowns, and louts.

Each when his rustic pains began
To merit pleaded equal right;
'Twas only who left off at noon,
Or who went on to work till night.

But coronets we owe to crowns,
And favour to a court's affection;
By nature we are Adam's sons,
And sons of Anstis by election.

Kingsale! eight hundred years have roll'd
Since thy forefathers had the plough;
When this in story shall be told,
Add, that my kindred do so now.

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poem by Matthew Prior
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Songs Set To Music: 6. Set By Mr. Smith

Phillis, since we have both been kind,
And of each other had our fill,
Tell me what pleasure you can find
In forcing Nature 'gainst her will.

'Tis true, you may, with art and pain,
Keep in some glowings of desire,
But still those glowings which remain
Are only ashes of the fire.

Then let us free each other's soul,
And laugh at the dull constant fool
Who would Love's liberty control,
And teach us how to whine by rule.

Let us no impositions set
Or clogs upon each other's heart;
But, as for pleasure first we met,
So now for pleasure let us part.

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poem by Matthew Prior
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Song

THE merchant, to secure his treasure,
   Conveys it in a borrow'd name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure;
   But Chloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre,
   Upon Euphelia's toilet lay;
When Chloe noted her desire
   That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;
   But with my numbers mix my sighs:
And while I sing Euphelia's praise,
   I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.

Fair Chloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:
   I sung, and gazed: I play'd, and trembled:
And Venus to the Loves around
   Remark'd, how ill we all dissembled.

poem by Matthew Prior
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A Simile

Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop
Thy head into a tin-man's shop?
There, Thomas, didst thou never see
('Tis but by way of simile)
A squirrel spend his little rage
In jumping round a rolling cage?
The cage, as either side turn'd up,
Striking a ring of bells a-top?--

Mov'd in the orb, pleas'd with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs:
But here or there, turn wood or wire,
He never gets two inches higher.

So fares it with those merry blades,
That frisk it under Pindus' shades.
In noble songs, and lofty odes,
They tread on stars, and talk with gods;
Still dancing in an airy round,
Still pleas'd with their own verses' sound;

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poem by Matthew Prior
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Chanson. - And Imitation

Que fais tu bergere dans ce beau verger
Tu ne songe gueres a me soulager?
Tu connois ma flamme, tu vois ma langueur,
Prens belle inhumaine pitie de mon coeur.

Dequoy te plains tu malheureux berger?
Que n'ay je point fait pour te soulager!
J'ay quitte la plaine, mon troupeau, mon chien,
Prend on tat de peine quand on n'aime rien.

Imitation

Why thus from the plain does my sheperdess rove,
Forsaking her swain and neglecting his love?
You have heard all my grief, you see how I die,
Oh! give some relief to the swain whom you fly.

How can you complain, or what am I to say,

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poem by Matthew Prior
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To The Lady Dursley

Here reading how fond Adam was betray'd,
And how by sin Eve's blasted charms decay'd,
Our common loss unjustly you complain,
So small that part of it which you sustain.

You still, fair mother, in your offspring trace
The stock of beauty destined for the race;
Kind Nature forming them, the pattern took
From heaven's first work, and Eve's original look.

You, happy saint, the serpent's power control;
Scarce any actual guilt defiles your soul;
And hell does o'er that mind vain triumphs boast
Which gains does o'er that mind vain triumphs boast

With virtue strong as yours had Eve been arm'd,
In vain the fruit had blush'd, or serpent charm'd;
Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought,
Nor had frail Adam fall'n, nor Milton wrote.

poem by Matthew Prior
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Songs Set To Music: 15. Set By Mr. De Fesch

Farewell, Amynta, we must part;
The charm has lost its power
Which held so fast my captived heart
Until this fatal hour.

Hadst thou not thus my love abused,
And used me ne'er so ill,
Thy cruelty I had excused,
And I had loved thee still.

But know, my soul disdain'd thy sway,
And scorns thy charms and thee,
To which each fluttering coxcomb may
As welcome be as me.

Think in what perfect bliss you reign'd,
How loved before thy fall,
And now, alas! how much disdain'd
By me, and scorn'd by all.

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poem by Matthew Prior
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On My Birthday, July 21

I, MY dear, was born to-day--
So all my jolly comrades say:
They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth,
And ask to celebrate my birth:
Little, alas! my comrades know
That I was born to pain and woe;
To thy denial, to thy scorn,
Better I had ne'er been born:
I wish to die, even whilst I say--
'I, my dear, was born to-day.'
I, my dear, was born to-day:
Shall I salute the rising ray,
Well-spring of all my joy and woe?
Clotilda, thou alone dost know.
Shall the wreath surround my hair?
Or shall the music please my ear?
Shall I my comrades' mirth receive,
And bless my birth, and wish to live?
Then let me see great Venus chase
Imperious anger from thy face;

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poem by Matthew Prior
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A Lover's Anger

As Cloe came into the Room t'other Day,
I peevish began; Where so long cou'd You stay?
In your Life-time You never regarded your Hour:
You promis'd at Two; and (pray look Child) 'tis Four.
A Lady's Watch needs neither Figures nor Wheels:
'Tis enough, that 'tis loaded with Baubles and Seals.
A Temper so heedless no Mortal can bear—
Thus far I went on with a resolute Air.
Lord bless Me! said She; let a Body but speak:
Here's an ugly hard Rose-Bud fall'n into my Neck:
It has hurt Me, and vext Me to such a Degree—
See here; for You never believe Me; pray see,
On the left Side my Breast what a Mark it has made.
So saying, her Bosom She careless display'd.
That Seat of Delight I with Wonder survey'd;
And forgot ev'ry Word I design'd to have said.

poem by Matthew Prior
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To My Lord Buckhurst, Very Young, Playing With A Cat

The amorous youth, whose tender breast
Was by his darling Cat possest,
Obtain'd of Venus his desire,
Howe'er irregular his fire:
Nature the power of love obey'd,
The Cat became a blushing maid,
And on the happy change the boy
Employ'd his wonder and his joy.
Take care, O beauteous child, take care,
Lest thou prefer so rash a prayer,
Nor vainly hope the queen of love,
Will e'er thy favourite's charms improve.
O quickly from her shrine retreat,
Or tremble for thy darling's fate.
The queen of love, who soon will see
Her own Adonis live in thee,
Will lightly her first loss deplore,
Will easily forgive the boar:
Her eyes with tears no more will flow,
With jealous rage her breast will glow,

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poem by Matthew Prior
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