His wife died this year, he has married his maid.
To suppress all his carnal desires in their birth,
At all hours a lusty young hussy is near:
And, to take off his thoughts from the things of this earth,
He can be content with two thousand a year.
A FRENCH SONG IMITATED.
WHY thus from the plain does my shepherdess 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,
Since my dog lies unfed, and my sheep run astray?
Need I tell what I mean, that I languish alone!
When I leave all the plain, you may guess ’tis for one.
A CASE STATED.
NOW how shall I do with my love and my pride;
Dear Dick, give me counsel, if friendship has any;
Prithee purge, or let blood I surly Richard replied.
And forget the coquette in the arms of your Nanny.
While I pleaded with passion how much I deserv’d,
For the pains and the torments of more than a year;
She look’d in an almanack, whence she observ’d,
That it wanted a fortnight to Bartlemew-fair.
My Cowley and Waller how vainly I quote,
While my negligent judge only hears with her eye! 10
In a long flaxen wig, and embroider’d new coat,
Her spark saying nothing talks better than I.
UPON PLAYING AT OMBRE WITH TWO LADIES.
I KNOW that fortune long has wanted
AND therefore pardon’d when she did
But yet till then it never did appear,
That, as she wanted eyes, she could not hear;
I begg’d that she would give me leave to lose,
A thing she does not commonly refuse!
Two matadores are out against my game,
Yet still I play, and still my luck’s the same:
Unconquer’d in three suits it does remain,
Whereas I only ask in one to gain; 10
Yet she, still contradicting, gifts imparts,
And gives success in every suit — but hearts.
CUPID’S PROMISE.
A FRENCH SONG PARAPHRASED.
SOFT Cupid, wanton, amorous boy,
The other day, mov’d with my lyre,
In flattering accents spoke his joy,
And utter’d thus his fond desire.
Oh! raise thy voice! one song I ask;
Touch then th’ harmonious string;
To Thyrsis easy is the task,
Who can so sweetly play and sing.
Two kisses from my mother dear,
Thyrsis, thy due reward shall be; 10
None, none, like beauty’s queen is fair,
Paris has vouch’d this truth for me.
I straight replied, Thou know’st alone
That brightest Chloe rules my breast,
I’ll sing thee two instead of one,
If thoult be kind, and make me blest,
One kiss from Chloe’s lips, no more
I crave: ho promis’d me success;
I play’d with all my skill and power,
My glowing passion to express. 20
But oh! my Chloe, beauteous maid!
Wilt thou the wish’d reward bestow?
Wilt thou make good what love has said,
And, by thy grant, his power show?
TO THE EARL OF OXFORD.
WRITTEN EXTEMPORE, IN LADY OXFORD’S STUDY, 1717.
PEN, ink, and wax, and paper send
To the kind wife, the lovely friend:
Smiling, bid her freely write
What her happy thoughts indite;
Of virtue, goodness, peace, and love,
Thoughts which angels may approve.
A LETTER TO THE HONOURABLE LADY MARGARET CAVENDISH HOLLES-HARLEY, WHEN A CHILD.
MY noble, lovely, little Peggy,
Let this, my first epistle, beg ye,
At dawn of morn and close of even,
To lift your heart and hands to heaven.
In double beauty say your prayer:
Our Father first, — then Notre Père:
And, dearest child, along the day,
In every thing you do and say,
Obey and please my lord and lady,
So God shall love, and angels aid ye. 10
If to these precepts you attend,
No second letter need I send,
And so I rest your constant friend.
LINES WRITTEN UNDER THE PRINT OF TOM BRITTON.
THE SMALL-COAL-MAN, PAINTED BY MR. WOOLASTON.
THOUGH doom’d to small-coal, yet to arts allied,
Rich without wealth, and famous without pride;
Music’s best patron, judge of books and men
Belov’d and honour’d by Apollo’s train:
In Greece or Rome sure never did appear
So bright a genius, in so dark a sphere:
More of the man had artfully been sav’d,
Had Kneller painted, and had Vertue grav’d.
TRUTH TOLD AT LAST.
SAYS Pontius in rage, contradicting his
“You never yet told me one truth in
Vex’d Pontia no way could this thesis allow,
“You’re a cuckold,” says she; “do I tell you truth now?”
WRITTEN IN LADY HOWE’S OVID’S EPISTLES.
HOWEVER high, however cold, the fair,
However great the dying lover’s care,
Ovid, kind author, found him some
Rang’d his unruly sighs, and set his grief;
Taught him what accents had the power to move,
And always gain’d him pity, sometimes love.
But, oh! what pangs torment the destin’d heart,
That feels the wound, yet dares not show the dart!
What ease could Ovid to his sorrows give,
Who must not speak, and therefore cannot live!
AN EPISTLE. MDCCXVI.
I PRAY, good Lady Harley, let Jonathan
How long you intend to live incognito.
Your humble servant,
ELKANAH SETTLE.
ANOTHER EPISTLE.
I PRAY Lady Harriot the time to
When she shall receive a turkey and chine;
That a body may come to St. James’s to dine.
TRUE’S EPITAPH.
IF wit or honesty could save
Our mouldering ashes from the grave,
This stone had still remain’d unmark’d,
I still writ prose, True still have bark’d.
But envious fate has claim’d its due,
Here lies the mortal part of True;
His deathless virtues must survive,
To better us that are alive.
His prudence and his wit were seen
In that, from Mary’s grace and mien, 10
He own’d the power, and lov’d the queen.
By long obedience he confess’d
That serving her was to be bless’d. —
Ye murmurera, let True evince
That men are beasts, and dogs have sense!
His faith and truth all Whitehall knows,
He ne’er could fawn or flatter those
Whom he believ’d were Mary’s foes:
Ne’er skulk’d from whence his sovereign led him,
Or snarl’d against the hand that fed him. — 20
Read this, ye statesmen now in favour,
And mend your own, by True’s behaviour!
EPIGRAM.
TO Richmond and Peterburgh, Mat gave his letters,
And thought they were safe in the hands of his betters.
How happen’d it then that the packets were lost?
These were knights of the garter, not knights of the post.
THE VICEROY.
A BALLAD.
TO THE TUNE OF LADY ISABELLA’S TRAGEDY.
OF Nero, tyrant, petty king,
Who heretofore did reign
In fam’d Hibernia, I will sing,
And in a ditty plain.
He hated was by rich and poor,
For reasons you shall hear;
So ill he exercis’d his power,
That he himself did fear.
Full proud and arrogant was he,
And covetous withal; 10
The guilty he would still set free,
But guiltless men enthral.
He, with a haughty impious nod,
Would curse and dogmatize;
Nor fearing either man or God:
Gold he did idolize.
A patriot of high degree,
Who could no longer bear
This upstart Viceroy’s tyranny,
Against him did declare. 20
And, arm’d with truth, impeach’d the Don
Of his enormous crimes,
Which I’ll unfold to you anon,
In low, but faithful rhymes.
The articles recorded stand
Against this peerless peer,
Search but the archives of the land,
You’ll find them written there.
Attend, and justly I’ll recite
His treasons to you all, 30
The heads set in their native light
(And sigh poor Gaphny’s fall).
That traitorously he did abuse
The power in him repos’d;
And wickedly the same did use,
On all mankind impos’d.
That he, contrary to all law,
An oath did frame and make,
Compelling the militia
Th’ illegal oath to take. 40
Free quarters for the army too
He did exact and force
On Protestants; his love to show,
Than Papists us’d them worse.
On all provisions destin’d for
The camp at Limerick,
He laid a tax full hard and sore,
Though many men were sick.
The suttlers too he did ordain
For licenses should pay, 50
Which they refus’d with just disdain,
And fled the camp away.
By which provisions were so scant,
That hundreds there did die,
The soldiers food and drink did want,
Nor famine could they fly.
He so much lov’d his private gain,
He could nor hear or see;
They might, or die, or might complain,
Without relief, pardie. 60
That, above and against all right,
By word of mouth did he,
In council sitting, hellish spite,
The farmer’s fate decree:
That he, O Ciel! without trial,
Straightway should hanged be;
Though then the courts were open all,
Yet Nero judge would be.
No sooner said, but it was done,
The Bourreau did his worst; 70
Gaphny, alas! is dead and gone,
And left his judge accurst.
In this concise despotic way
Unhappy Gaphny fell,
Which did all honest men affray,
As truly it might well.
Full two good hundred pounds a year,
This poor man’s real estate,
He settled on his favourite dear,
And Culliford can say’t. 80
Besides, he gave five hundred pound
To Fielding his own scribe,
Who was his bail; one friend he found,
He ow’d him to the bribe.
But for this horrid murder vile
None did him prosecute;
His old friend help’d him o’er the stile:
With Satan who’d dispute?
With France, fair England’s mortal foe,
A trade he carried on; 90
Had any other done’t, I trow
To Tripos he had gone.
That he did likewise traitorously,
To bring his ends to bear,
Enrich himself most knavishly;
O thief without compare!
Vast quantities of stores did he
Embezzle and purloin;
Of the king’s stores he kept a key,
Converting them to coin. 100
The forfeited estates also,
Both real and personal,
Did with the stores together go,
Fierce Cerberus swallow’d all.
Meanwhile the soldiers sigh’d and sobb’d,
For not one sou had they;
His Excellence had each man fobb’d,
For he had sunk their pay.
Nero, without the least disguise,
The papists at all times 110
Still favour’d, and their robberies
Look’d on as trivial crimes.
The protestants whom they did rob
During his government,
Were forc’d with patience, like good Job,
To rest themselves content.
For he did basely them refuse
All legal remedy;
The Romans he still well did use,
Still screen’d their roguery. 120
Succinctly thus to you I’ve told,
How this Viceroy did reign;
And other truths I shall unfold,
For truth is always plain.
The best of queens he hath revil’d,
Before and since her death,
He, cruel and ungrateful, smil’d
When she resign’d her breath.
Forgetful of the favours kind
She had on him bestow’d, 130
Like Lucifer his rancorous mind,
He lov’d not her nor God.
But listen, Nero, lend thine ears,
As still thou hast them on;
Hear what Britannia says with tears,
Of Anna dead and gone.
“Oh! sacred be her memory,
For ever dear her name!
There never was, nor e’er can be,
A brighter, juster dame. 140
“Blest be my sons, and eke all those
Who on her praises dwell!
She conquer’d Britain’s fiercest foes,
She did all queens excel.
“All princes, kings, and potentates,
Ambassadors did send:
All nations, provinces, and states,
Sought Anna for their friend.
“In Anna they did all confide,
For Anna they could trust: 150
Her royal faith they all had tried,
For Anna still was just.
“Truth, mercy, justice, did surround
Her awful judgment seat,
In her the Graces all were found,
In Anna all complete.
‘She held the sword and balance right,
And sought her people’s good:
In clemency she did delight,
Her reign not stain’d with blood. 160
‘ Her gracious goodness, piety,
In all her deeds did shine,
And bounteous was her charity;
All attributes divine.
“Consummate wisdom, meekness all,
Adorn’d the words she spoke;
When they from her fair lips did fall;
And sweet her lovely look.
“Ten thousand glorious deeds to crown,
She caus’d dire war to cease: 170
A greater empress ne’er was known,
She fix’d the world in peace.
“This last and godlike act achiev’d,
To heaven she wing’d her flight:
Her loss with tears all Europe griev’d;
Their strength, and dear delight.
“Leave we in bliss this heavenly saint,
Revere, ye just, h
er urn;
Her virtues high and excellent,
Astrea gone we mourn. 180
“Commemorate, my sons, the day
Which gave great Anna birth:
Keep it for ever and for aye,
And annual be your mirth!”
Illustrious George now fills the throne.
Our wise benign good king:
Who can his wondrous deeds make known?
Or his bright actions sing?
Thee, favourite Nero, he has deign’d
To raise to high degree! 190
Well thou thy honours hast sustain’d,
Well vouch’d thy ancestry.
But pass — These honours on thee laid,
Can they e’er make thee white?
Don’t Gaphny’s blood, which thou hast shed,
Thy guilty soul affright?
Oh! is there not, grim mortal, tell,
Places of bliss and woe?
Oh! is there not a heaven, a hell?
But whither wilt thou go? 200
Can nought change thy obdurate mind?
Wilt thou for ever rail?
The prophet on thee well refin’d,
And set thy wit to sale.
How thou art lost to sense and shame,
Three countries witness be:
Thy conduct all just men do blame,
Libera nos, Domine!
Dame Justice waits thee, well I ween,
Her sword is brandish’d high: 210
Nought can thee from her vengeance screen,
Nor canst thou from her fly.
Heavy her ire will fall on thee,
Complete Works of Matthew Prior Page 45
