Heaps of hair rings, and cipher’d seals;
Rich trifles; serious bagatelles.
What sad disorders play begets!
Desperate and mad, at length he sets
Those darts, whose points make gods adore
His might, and deprecate his power:
Those darts, whence all our joy and pain
Arise: those darts — Come, seven’s the main, 30
Cries Ganymede: the usual trick:
Seven, slur a six; eleven, a nick.
Ill news goes fast: ’twas quickly known,
That simple Cupid was undone.
Swifter than lightning Venus flew:
Too late she found the thing too true.
Guess how the goddess greets her son:
Come hither, sirrah: no, begone;
And, hark ye, is it so indeed?
A comrade you for Ganymede? 40
An imp as wicked, for his age,
As any earthly lady’s page;
A scandal and a scourge to Troy;
A prince’s son! a black-guard boy;
A sharper, that with box and dice
Draws in young deities to vice.
All Heaven is by the ears together,
Since first that little rogue came hither:
Juno herself has had no peace:
And truly I’ve been favour’d less: 50
For Jove, as Fame reports (but Fame
Says things not fit for me to name),
Has acted ill for such a god,
And taken ways extremely odd.
And thou, unhappy child, she said
(Her anger by her grief allay’d),
Unhappy child, who thus has lost
All the estate we e’er could boast;
Whither, O whither wilt thou run,
Thy name despis’d, thy weakness known? 60
Nor shall thy shrine on earth be crown’d;
Nor shall thy power in Heaven be own’d;
When thou, nor man, nor god canst wound
Obedient Cupid kneeling cried,
Cease, dearest mother, cease to chide:
Gany’s a cheat, and I’m a bubble:
Yet why this great excess of trouble?
The dice were false: the darts are gone:
Yet how are you or I undone?
The loss of these I can supply 70
With keener shafts from Cloe’s eye:
Fear not we e’er can be disgrac’d,
While that bright magazine shall last:
Your crowded altars still shall smoke;
And man your friendly aid invoke:
Jove shall again revere your power,
And rise a swan, or fall a shower.
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 cried;
O cruel, couldst thou find none other, 10
To wrack 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.
VENUS MISTAKEN.
WHEN doe’s picture was to Venue shown,
Surpris’d, the goddess took it for her own.
And what, said she, does this bold painter mean?
When was I bathing thus, and naked soon?
Pleas’d Cupid heard and check’d his mother’s pride:
And who’s blind now, mamma? the urchin cried.
’Tis doe’s eye, and cheek, and lip, and breast:
Friend Howard’s genius fancied all the rest.
A SONG.
IF wine and music have the power
To ease the sickness of the soul;
Let Phœbus every string explore;
And Bacchus fill the sprightly bowl.
Let them their friendly aid employ,
To make my Cloe’s absence light;
And seek for pleasure, to destroy
The sorrows of this live-long night.
But she to-morrow will return;
Venus, be thou to-morrow great; 10
Thy myrtles strow, thy odours burn;
And meet thy fav’rite nymph in state.
Kind goddess, to no other powers
Let us to-morrow’s blessings own:
Thy darling loves shall guide the hours,
And all the day be thine alone.
THE DOVE.
— Tantæne animis cœlestibus irae? — VIRG.
IN Virgil’s sacred verse we find,
That passion can depress or raise
The heavenly, as the human mind:
Who dare deny what Virgil says?
But if they should; what our great master
Has thus laid down, my tale shall prove.
Fair Venus wept the sad disaster
Of having lost her favourite Dove.
In complaisance poor Cupid mourn’d;
His grief reliev’d his mother’s pain;
He vow’d he’d leave no stone unturn’d,
But she should have her Dove again.
Though none, said he, shall yet be nam’d,
I know the felon well enough:
But be she not, mamma, condemn’d
Without a fair and legal proof.
With that, his longest dart he took,
As constable would take his staff:
That gods desire like men to look,
Would make e’en Heraclitus laugh 20
Love’s subalterns, a duteous band,
Like watchmen round their chief appear:
Each had his lantern in his hand:
And Venus mask’d brought up the rear.
Accoutred thus, their eager step
To Cloe’s lodging they directed:
(At once I write, alas! and weep,
That Cloe is of theft suspected.)
Late they set out, had far to go:
St. Dunstan’s, as they pass’d, struck one. 30
Cloe, for reasons good, you know,
Lives at the sober end o’ th’ town.
With one great peal they rap the door,
Like footmen on a visiting day.
Folks at her house at such an hour!
Lord! what will all the neighbours say?
The door is open: up they run:
Nor prayers, nor threats divert their speed:
Thieves! thieves I cries Susan; we’re undone;
They’ll kill my mistress in her bed. 40
In bed indeed the nymph had been
Three hours: for all historians say,
She commonly went up at ten,
Unless piquet was in the way.
She wak’d, be sure, with strange surprise,
O Cupid, is this right or law,
Thus to disturb the brightest eyes,
That ever slept, or ever saw?
Have you observ’d a sitting hare,
Listening, and fearful of the storm 50
Of horns and hounds, clap back her ear,
Afraid to keep, or leave her form?
Or have you mark’d a partridge quake,
Viewing the towering falcon nigh?
She cuddles low behind the brake:
Nor would she stay; nor dares she fly.
Then have you seen the beauteous maid;
When gazing on her midnight foes,
She turn’d each way her frighted head,
Then sunk it deep beneath the clothes. 60
Venus this while was in the chamber
Incognito: for Susan said,
It smelt so strong of myrrh and amber —
And Susan is no lying maid.
But since we have no present need
Of Venus for an episode,
With Cupid let us e’en proceed;
And thus to doe spoke the god:
Hold up your head: hold up your hand:
Would it were not my lot to show ye 70
This cruel writ, wherein you stand
Indicted by the name of doe:
For that by secret malice stirr’d,
Or by an emulous pride invited,
You have purloin’d the fav’rite bird,
In which my mother most delighted.
Her blushing face the lovely maid
Rais’d just above the milk-white sheet.
A rose-tree in a lily bed
Nor glows so red, nor breathes so sweet, 80
Are you not he whom virgins fear,
And widows court? is not your name
Cupid? If so, pray come not near —
Fair maiden, I’m the very same.
Then what have I, good Sir, to say,
Or do with her, you call your mother?
If I should meet her in my way,
We hardly courtesy to each other.
Diana chaste, and Hebe sweet,
Witness that what I speak is true: 90
I would not give my paroquet
For all the Doves that ever flew.
Yet, to compose this midnight noise,
Go freely search where’er you please:
(The rage that rais’d, adorn’d her voice)
Upon yon toilet lie my keys.
Her keys he takes; her doors unlocks:
Through wardrobe, and through closet bounces;
Peeps into every chest and box;
Turns all her furbelows and flounces. 100
But Dove, depend on’t, finds he none;
So to the bed returns again:
And now the maiden, bolder grown,
Begins to treat him with disdain.
I marvel much, she smiling said,
Your poultry cannot yet be found:
Lies he in yonder slipper dead,
Or may be, in the tea-pot drown’d?
No, traitor, angry Love replies,
He’s hid somewhere about your breast; 110
A place nor god nor man denies,
For Venus’ Dove the proper nest.
Search then, she said, put in your hand,
And Cynthia, dear protectress, guard me:
As guilty I, or free may stand,
Do thou, or punish, or reward me.
But ah! what maid to Love can trust;
He scorns, and breaks all legal power:
Into her breast his hand he thrust;
And in a moment forc’d it lower. 120
O, whither do those fingers rove,
Cries Cloe, treacherous urchin, whither?
O Venus! I shall find thy Dove,
Says he; for sure I touch his feather.
A LOVER’S ANGER.
AS Cloe came into the room t’other day,
I peevish began; where so long could 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 hawbles 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: 9
Here’s an ugly hard rose-bud fall’n into my neck;
It has hurt me, and vex’d 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 every word I design’d to have said.
MERCURY AND CUPID.
IN sullen humour one day Jove
Sent Hermes down to Ida’s grove,
Commanding Cupid to deliver
His store of darts, his total quiver;
That Hermes should the weapons break,
Or throw ’em into Lethe’s lake.
Hermes, you know, must do his errand:
He found his man, produc’d his warrant;
Cupid, your darts — this very hour —
There’s no contending against power. 10
How sullen Jupiter, just now,
I think I said; and you’ll allow,
That Cupid was as bad as he:
Hear but the youngster’s repartee.
Come, kinsman (said the little god),
Put off your wings, lay by your rod;
Retire with me to yonder bower,
And rest yourself for half an hour:
’Tis far indeed from hence to Heaven:
But you fly fast; and ’tis but seven. 20
We’ll take one cooling cup of nectar;
And drink to this celestial Hector —
He break my darts, or hurt my power!
He, Leda’8 swan, and Danae’s shower!
Go, bid him his wife’s tongue restrain,
And mind his thunder, and his rain. —
My darts! O certainly I’ll give ’em:
From doe’s eyes he shall receive ’em.
There’s one, the best in all my quiver,
Twang! through his very heart and liver. 30
He then shall pine, and sigh, and rave:
Good lord! what bustle shall we have!
Neptune must straight be sent to sea,
And Flora summon’d twice a day:
One must find shells, and t’other flowers,
For cooling grots, and fragrant bowers,
That doe may be serv’d in state:
The Hours must at her toilet wait:
Whilst all the reasoning fools below
Wonder their watches go too slow, 40
Lybs must fly south, and Burns east,
For jewels for her hair and breast:
No matter though their cruel haste
Sink cities, and lay forests waste.
No matter though this fleet be lost;
Or that lie wind-bound on the coast.
What whispering in my mother’s ear!
What care, that Juno should not hear!
What work among you scholar gods!
Phœbus must write him am’rous odes: 50
And thou, poor cousin, must compose
His letters in submissive prose;
Whilst haughty doe, to sustain
The honour of my mystic reign,
Shall all his gifts and vows disdain;
And laugh at your old bully’s pain.
Dear coz., said Hermes in a fright,
For Heaven’s sake, keep your darts! good night.
ON BEAUTY. A RIDDLE.
RESOLVE me, Cloe, what is this:
Or forfeit me one precious kiss.
’Tis the first offspring of the Graces;
Bears different forms indifferent places;
Acknowledg’d fine, where’er beheld;
Yet fancied finer when conceal’d.
’Twas Flora’s wealth, and Circe’s charm;
Pandora’s box of good and harm:
Twas Mars’s wish, Endymion’s dream;
Apelles’ draught, and Ovid’s theme. 10
This guided Theseus through the maze;
And sent him home with life and praise.
But this undid the Phrygian boy;
And blew the flames that ruin’d Troy.
This shew’d great kindness to old Greece,
And help’d rich Jason to the fleece.
This through the east just vengeance hurl’d,
And lost poor Anthony the world.
Injur’d, though Lucrece found her doom;
This banish’d tyra
nny from Rome. 20
Appeas’d though Lais gain’d her hire:
This set Persepolis on fire.
For this Alcides learn’d to spin:
His club laid down, and lion’s skin.
For this Apollo deign’d to keep,
With servile care, a mortal’s sheep.
For this the Father of the gods,
Content to leave his high abodes,
In borrow’d figures loosely ran,
Europa’s bull, and Leda’s swan, 30
For this he reassumes the nod,
(While Semele commands the God)
Launches the bolt, and shakes the poles;
Though Momus laughs, and Juno scolds.
Here listening Cloe smil’d and said;
Your riddle is not hard to read:
I guess it — Fair one, if you do;
Need I, alas! the theme pursue?
For this thou see’st, for this I leave,
Whate’er the world thinks wise or grave, 40
Ambition, business, friendship, news,
My useful books, and serious Muse.
For this I willingly decline
The mirth of feasts, and joys of wine;
And choose to sit and talk with thee,
(As thy great orders may decree)
Of cocks and bulls, and flutes and fiddles,
Of idle tales, and foolish riddles.
THE QUESTION, TO LISETTA.
WHAT nymph should I admire, or trust,
But Cloe beauteous, Cloe just?
What nymph should I desire to see,
But her who leaves the plain for me?
To whom should I compose the lay,
But her who listens when I play?
To whom, in song, repeat my cares,
But her who in my sorrow shares?
For whom should I the garland make,
But her who joys the gift to take, 10
And boasts she wears it for my sake?
In love am I not fully blest?
Lisetta, pr’ythee tell the rest.
LISETTA’S REPLY.
SURE, Cloe just, and Cloe fair,
Deserves to be your only care:
But when you and she to-day
Far into the wood did stray,
Complete Works of Matthew Prior Page 7
