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,
To shew 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.

CXVII.

THE

AN ODE.

HE 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.

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 :
Saw ye Delia cross the plains?

Every thicket, every grove,
Have I ranged, to find my love:
A kid, a lamb, my flock, I give,
Tell me only doth she live.

White her skin as mountain-snow;

In her cheek the roses blow;

And her eye is brighter far
Than the beamy morning star.
When her ruddy lip ye view,
'Tis a berry moist with dew:
And her breath, Oh! 'tis a gale
Passing o'er a fragrant vale,
Passing, when a friendly shower
Freshens every herb and flower.
Wide her bosom opens, gay
As the primrose-dell in May,
Sweet as violet-borders growing

Over fountains ever-flowing.

Like the tendrils of the vine
Do her auburn tresses twine,
Glossy ringlets all behind
Streaming buxom to the wind,
When along the lawn she bounds,
Light, as hind before the hounds:
And the youthful ring she fires,
Hopeless in their fond desires,
As her flitting feet advance,
Wanton in the winding dance.

Tell me, shepherds, have ye seen My delight, my love, my queen?