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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Venus Mistaken
When Cloe's Picture was to Venus shown;
Surpriz'd, the Goddess took it for Her own.
And what, said She, does this bold Painter mean?
When was I Bathing thus, and Naked seen?
Pleas'd Cupid heard, and check'd His Mother's Pride:
And who's blind now, Mamma? the Urchin cry'd.
'Tis Cloe's Eye, and Cheek, and Lip, and Breast:
Friend Howard's Genius fancy'd all the rest.
poem by Matthew Prior
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On Bishop Atterbury's Burying The Duke Of Buckingham, 1721
I have no hopes, the Duke he says, and dies.
In sure and certain hopes - the prelate cries:
Of these two learned peers, I pr'ythee say, man,
Who is the lying knave, the priest or layman?
The Duke he stands an infidel confess'd:
He's our dear brother, quoth the lordly priest.
The Duke, though knave, still brother dear he cries
And who can say the reverend Prelate lies?
poem by Matthew Prior
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Ode - Promesse De L'Amour
Hier, l'Amour touche du son
Que rendoit ma lire qu'il aime,
Me promit pour une chanson,
Deux baisers de sa mere mesme.
Non, luy dis-je, tu scals mes voeux,
Tu connois quel penchant m'entraine,
Au lieu d'un j'en offre deux,
Pour un seul baiser de Climene.
Il me promit ce deux retour,
Ma lire en eut plus de tendresse;
Mais vous, Climene, de l'amour
Aquiterez-vous la promesse?
poem by Matthew Prior
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Nell and John
When Nell, given o'er by the doctor, was dying,
And John at the chimney stood decently crying,
'Tis in vain said the woman to make such ado,
For to our long home we must all of us go.
True, Nell, replied John; but what yet is the worst
For us that remain, the best always go first;
Remember, dear wife, that I said so last year,
When you lost your white heifer, and I my brown mare.
poem by Matthew Prior
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