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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=457207" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Dove</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">In Virgil's Sacred Verse we find,<br>That Passion can depress or raise<br>The Heav'nly, as the Human Mind:<br>Who dare deny what Virgil says?<br>But if They shou'd; what our Great Master<br>Has thus laid down, my Tale shall prove.<br>Fair Venus wept the sad Disaster<br>Of having lost her Fav'rite Dove.<br>In Complaisance poor Cupid mourn'd;<br>His Grief reliev'd his Mother's Pain;<br>He vow'd he'd leave no Stone unturn'd,<br>But She shou'd have her Dove again.<br>Tho' None, said He, shall yet be nam'd,<br>I know the Felon well enough:<br>But be She not, Mamma, condemn'd<br>Without a fair and legal Proof.<br>With that, his longest Dart he took,<br>As Constable wou'd take his Staff:<br>That Gods desire like Men to look,<br>Wou'd make ev'n Heraclitus laugh.<br>Loves Subaltern, a Duteous Band,<br>Like Watchmen round their Chief appear:<br>Each had his Lanthorn in his Hand:<br>And Venus mask'd brought up the Rear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Accouter'd thus, their eager Step<br>To Cloe's Lodging They directed:<br>(At once I write, alas! and weep,<br>That Cloe is of Theft suspected.)<br>Late They set out, had far to go:<br>St. Dunstan's, as They pass'd, struck One.<br>Cloe, for Reasons good, You know,<br>Lives at the sober End o'th' Town.<br>With one great Peal They rap the Door,<br>Like Footmen on a Visiting-Day.<br>Folks at Her House at such an Hour!<br>Lord! what will all the Neighbours say?<br>The Door is open'd: up They run:<br>Nor Prayers, nor Threats divert their Speed:<br>Thieves, Thieves! cries Susan; We're undone;<br>They'll kill my Mistress in her Bed.<br>In Bed indeed the Nymph had been<br>Three Hours: for all Historians say,<br>She commonly went up at Ten,<br>Unless Picquet was in the Way.<br>She wak'd, be sure, with strange Surprize.<br>O Cupid, is this Right or Law,<br>Thus to disturb the brightest Eyes,<br>That ever slept, or ever saw?<br>Have You observ'd a sitting Hare,<br>List'ning, and fearful of the Storm<br>Of Horns and Hounds, clap back her Ear,<br>Afraid to keep, or leave her Form?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or have You mark'd a Partridge quake,<br>Viewing the tow'ring Faulcon nigh?<br>She cuddles low behind the Brake:<br>Nor wou'd she stay: nor dares she fly.<br>Then have You seen the Beauteous Maid;<br>When gazing on her Midnight Foes,<br>She turn'd each Way her frighted Head,<br>Then sunk it deap beneath the Cloaths.<br>Venus this while was in the Chamber<br>Incognito: for Susan said,<br>It smelt so strong of Myrrh and Amber—<br>And Susan is no lying Maid.<br>But since We have no present Need<br>Of Venus for an Episode;<br>With Cupid let us e'en proceed;<br>And thus to Cloe spoke the God:<br>Hold up your Head: hold up your Hand:<br>Wou'd it were not my Lot to show ye<br>This cruel Writ, wherein you stand<br>Indicted by the Name of Cloe:<br>For that by secret Malice stirr'd,<br>Or by an emulous Pride invited,<br>You have purloin'd the fav'rite Bird,<br>In which my Mother most delighted.<br>Her blushing Face the lovely Maid<br>Rais'd just above the milk-white Sheet.<br>A Rose-Tree in a Lilly Bed,<br>Nor glows so red, nor breathes so sweet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Are You not He whom Virgins fear,<br>And Widows court? Is not your Name<br>Cupid? If so, pray come not near—<br>Fair Maiden, I'm the very same.<br>Then what have I, good Sir, to say,<br>Or do with Her, You call your Mother?<br>If I shou'd meet Her in my Way,<br>We hardly court'sy to each other.<br>Diana Chaste, and Hebe Sweet,<br>Witness that what I speak is true:<br>I wou'd not give my Paroquet<br>For all the Doves that ever flew.<br>Yet, to compose this Midnight Noise,<br>Go freely search where-e'er you please:<br>(The Rage that rais'd, adorn'd Her Voice)<br>Upon yon' Toilet lie my Keys.<br>Her Keys He takes; her Doors unlocks;<br>Thro' Wardrobe, and thro' Closet bounces;<br>Peeps into ev'ry Chest and Box;<br>Turns all her Furbeloes and Flounces.<br>But Dove, depend on't, finds He none;<br>So to the Bed returns again:<br>And now the Maiden, bolder grown,<br>Begins to treat Him with Disdain.<br>I marvel much, She smiling said,<br>Your Poultry cannot yet be found:<br>Lies he in yonder Slipper dead,<br>Or, may be, in the Tea-pot drown'd?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No, Traytor, angry Love replies,<br>He's hid somewhere about Your Breast;<br>A Place, nor God, nor Man denies,<br>For Venus' Dove the proper Nest.<br>Search then, She said, put in your Hand,<br>And Cynthia, dear Protectress, guard Me:<br>As guilty I, or free may stand,<br>Do Thou, or punish, or reward Me.<br>But ah! what Maid to Love can trust?<br>He scorns, and breaks all Legal Power:<br>Into her Breast his Hand He thrust;<br>And in a Moment forc'd it lower.<br>O, whither do those Fingers rove,<br>Cries Cloe, treacherous Urchin, whither?<br>O Venus! I shall find thy Dove,<br>Says He; for sure I touch his Feather.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Matthew+Prior">Matthew Prior</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=457207" data-title="The Dove de Matthew Prior" data-description="In Virgil's Sacred Verse we find,
That Passion can depress or raise
The Heav'nly, as the Human Mind:
Who dare deny what Virgil says?
But if They shou'd; what our Great Master
Has thus laid down, my Tale shall prove.
Fair Venus wept the sad Disaste..."></div>
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