With Daniel she did dance, Fair maid! be not so coy, I am my mother's joy: Sweet! entertain me! A pair of mattrass beds, And yet, for all this guedes, She hath a clout of mine, Wrought with blue coventry, Which she keeps for a sign Of my fidelity: But, 'faith, if she flinch, She shall not wear it ; To Tib, my t' other wench, I mean to bear it. And yet it grieves my heart Death strike me with his dart! Thou shalt eat crudded cream And drink the crystal stream Whig and whey whilst thou lust, Pie-lid and pastry crust, Pears, plums, and cherries; Thy raiment shall be thin, Made of a weevil's skin Yet all's not worth a pin: One throws milk on my clothes, T'other plays with my nose: What wanting signs are those! Phillada flouts me. I cannot work nor sleep Love wounds my heart so deep, I 'gin to pine away In my love's shadow, Like as a fat beast may Penned in a meadow. I shall be dead, I fear, And all for that my dear Phillada flouts me. CXVI. MATTHEW PRIOR, 1664-1721. TO A CHILD OF QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD. MDCCIV. 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, 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, For while she makes her silk-worms beds, 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, 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. CXVII. AN ODE. 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; When Cloe noted her desire, That I should sing, that I should play. |