Matthew Prior
A Reasonable Affliction
On his death-bed poor Lubin lies: His spouse is in despair: With frequent sobs, and mutual cries, They both express their care. A different cause, says Parson Sly, The same effect may give: Poor
A Simile
Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop Thy head into a tin-man’s shop? There, Thomas, didst thou never see (‘Tis but by way of simile) A squirrel spend his little rage In jumping round a
To Chloe Jealous
Dear Chloe, how blubber’d is that pretty face; Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl’d: Prythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says) Let us e’en talk a little like
An Epitaph
Interr’d beneath this marble stone, Lie saunt’ring Jack and idle Joan. While rolling threescore years and one Did round this globe their courses run; If human things went ill or well; If changing empires
To a Child of Quality, Five Years Old, 1704. The Author then Forty
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,
The Merchant, To Secure His Treasure
The merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrowed name: Euphelia serves to grace my measure, But Cloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre Upon Euphelia’s toilet lay
Phyllis's Age
How old may Phyllis be, you ask, Whose beauty thus all hearts engages? To answer is no easy task; For she has really two ages. Stiff in brocard, and pinch’d in stays, Her patches,
Horace, Lib. I, Epist. IX, Imitated
[To the right honourable Mr. Harley] Dear Dick, how e’er it comes into his head, Believes, as firmly as he does his creed, That you and I, sir, are extremely great; Though I plain
On My Birthday, July 21
I, MY dear, was born to-day So all my jolly comrades say: They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth, And ask to celebrate my birth: Little, alas! my comrades know That I was born
Song
How old may Phyllis be, you ask, Whose beauty thus all hearts engages? To answer is no easy task; For she has really two ages. Stiff in brocard, and pinch’d in stays, Her patches,
A Better Answer
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
A Letter to 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 duty say your prayer:
To a Lady
Spare, gen’rous 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
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
For my own Monument
AS doctors give physic by way of prevention, Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care; For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention May haply be never fulfill’d by his heir.