English Poets of the Eighteenth Century · Chapter 6Matthew Prior
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Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, Were summoned, by her high command, To show their passions by their letters.
My pen amongst the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed.
Nor quality nor reputation Forbid me yet my flame to tell; Dear five years old befriends my passion, And I may write till she can spell.
For while she makes her silk-worms beds With all the tender things I swear, Whilst all the house my passion reads In papers round her baby's hair,
She may receive and own my flame; For though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet.
Then, too, alas! when she shall tear The lines some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends;
For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordained (would fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it.
Spare, generous victor, spare the slave Who did unequal war pursue, That more than triumph he might have In being overcome by you.
In the dispute whate'er I said, My heart was by my tongue belied, And in my looks you might have read How much I argued on your side.
You, far from danger as from fear, Might have sustained an open fight: For seldom your opinions err; Your eyes are always in the right.
Why, fair one, would you not rely On reason's force with beauty's joined? Could I their prevalence deny, I must at once be deaf and blind.
Alas! not hoping to subdue, I only to the fight aspired; To keep the beauteous foe in view Was all the glory I desired.
But she, howe'er of victory sure, Contemns the wreath too long delayed, And, armed with more immediate power, Calls cruel silence to her aid.
Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight: She drops her arms, to gain the field; Secures her conquest by her flight, And triumphs when she seems to yield.
So when the Parthian turned his steed And from the hostile camp withdrew, With cruel skill the backward reed He sent, and as he fled he slew.
Poor, little, pretty, fluttering thing, Must we no longer live together? And dost thou prune thy trembling wing, To take thy flight, thou know'st not whither? Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly, Lies all neglected, all forgot: And pensive, wavering, melancholy, Thou dread'st and hop'st, thou know'st not what.
Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face! Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled! Prithee quit this caprice, and (as old Falstaff says) Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.
How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping? Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy; More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping.
To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ, Your judgment at once and my passion you wrong; You take that for fact which will scarce be found wit: Od's life! must one swear to the truth of a song?
What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows The difference there is betwixt nature and art: I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose; And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.
The god of us verse-men (you know, child), the sun, How after his journeys he sets up his rest; If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run, At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast.
So when I am wearied with wandering all day, To thee, my delight, in the evening I come: No matter what beauties I saw in my way; They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war, And let us like Horace and Lydia agree; For thou art a girl as much brighter than her As he was a poet sublimer than me.