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, 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, 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. CXVII. THE AN ODE. HE merchant, to secure his treasure, My softest verse, my darling lyre, That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise, But with my numbers mix my sighs; And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes. Fair Cloe blushed: Euphelia frowned: I sung and gazed I played and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around Remarked, how ill we all dissembled. CXVIII. AMBROSE PHILLIPS, 1671-1749. THE STRAY NYMPH. CE EASE your music, gentle swains : Every thicket, every grove, White her skin as mountain-snow; In her cheek the roses blow; And her eye is brighter far Over fountains ever-flowing. Like the tendrils of the vine Tell me, shepherds, have ye seen My delight, my love, my queen? |