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 rose or fell;

The morning passed, the evening came,

And found this couple still the same.

They walk'd and eat, good folks: what then?

Why then they walk'd and eat again:

They soundly slept the night away:

They did just nothing all the day:

And having buried children four,

Would not take pains to try for more.

Nor sister either had, nor brother:

They seemed just tallied for each other.

Their moral and economy

Most perfectly they made agree:

Each virtue kept its proper bound,

Nor tresspass'd on the other's ground.

Nor fame, nor censure they regarded:

They neither punish'd nor rewarded.

He cared not what the footmen did:

Her maids she neither prais'd nor chid:

So ev'ry servant took his course;

And bad at first, they all grew worse.

Slothful disorder fill'd his stable;

And sluttish plenty deck'd her table.

Their beer was strong; their wine was port;

Their meal was large; their grace was short.

They gave the poor the remnant-meat

Just when it grew not fit to eat.

They paid the church and parish rate;

And took, but read not the receipt;

For which they claim'd their Sunday's due,

Of slumb'ring in an upper pew.

No man's defects sought they to know;

So never made themselves a foe.

No man's good deeds did they commend;

So never rais'd themselves a friend.

Nor cherish'd they relations poor:

That might decrease their present store:

Nor barn nor house did they repair:

That might oblige their future heir.

They neither added, nor confounded:

They neither wanted, nor abounded.

Each Christmas they accompts did clear;

And wound their bottom through the year.

Nor tear, nor smile did they employ

At news of public grief, or joy.

When bells were rung, and bonfires made,

If asked they ne'er denied their aid:

Their jug was to the ringers carried,

Whoever either died, or married.

Their billet at the fire was found,

Whoever was depos'd or crown'd.

Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise;

They would not learn, nor could advise;

Without love, hatred, joy, or fear,

They led--a kind of--as it were:

Nor wish'd nor car'd, nor laugh'd nor cry'd:

And so they liv'd; and so they died.

Matthew Prior

To a Child of Quality of Five Years Old

The author suppos'd forty

LORDS, Knights, and Squires, the num'rous Band

That wear the Fair Miss Mary's Fetters,

Were summon'd, by her high Command,

TO show their Passion by their Letters.

My Pen amongst the rest I took,

Lest those bright Eyes that cannot read

Shou'd dart their kindling Fires, and look

The Pow'r they have to be obey'd.

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 tho' the strictest Prudes shou'd 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 diff'rent Ages move,

'Tis so ordain'd, wou'd Fate but mend it,

That I shall be past making Love,

When she begins to comprehend it.

Matthew Prior

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 his might his bow he drew:

Swift to his beauteous parent's heart

The too well-guided arrow flew.

I faint! I die! the Goddess cry'd:

O cruel, could'st thou find none other,

To wreck thy spleen on? Parricide!

Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.

Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak;

Indeed, Mamma, I did not know ye:

Alas! how easy my mistake?

I took you for your likeness, Cloe.

Matthew Prior

Jinny the Just

RELEAS'D from the noise of the butcher and baker

Who, my old friends be thanked, did seldom forsake her,

And from the soft duns of my landlord the Quaker,

From chiding the footmen and watching the lasses,

From Nell that burn'd milk, and Tom that broke glasses

(Sad mischiefs thro' which a good housekeeper passes!)

From some real care but more fancied vexation,

From a life parti-colour'd half reason half passion,

Here lies after all the best wench in the nation.

From the Rhine to the Po, from the Thames to the Rhone,

Joanna or Janneton, Jinny or Joan,

'Twas all one to her by what name she was known.

For the idiom of words very little she heeded,

Provided the matter she drove at succeeded,

She took and gave languages just as she needed.

So for kitchen and market, for bargain and sale,

She paid English or Dutch or French down on the nail,

But in telling a story she sometimes did fail;

Then begging excuse as she happen'd to stammer,

With respect to her betters but none to her grammar,

Her blush helped her out and her jargon became her.

Her habit and mien she endeavor'd to frame

To the different gout of the place where she came;

Her outside still chang'd, but her inside the same:

At the Hague in her slippers and hair as the mode is,

At Paris all falbalow'd fine as a goddess,

And at censuring London in smock sleeves and bodice.

She order'd affairs that few people could tell

In what part about her that mixture did dwell

Of Frow, or Mistress, or Mademoiselle.

For her surname and race let the herald's e'en answer;

Her own proper worth was enough to advance her,

And he who liked her, little value her grandsire.

But from what house so ever her lineage may come

I wish my own Jinny but out of her tomb,

Tho' all her relations were there in her room.

Of such terrible beauty she never could boast

As with absolute sway o'er all hearts rules the roast

When J___ bawls out to the chair for a toast;

But of good household features her person was made,

Nor by faction cried up nor of censure afraid,

And her beauty was rather for use than parade.

Her blood so well mix't and flesh so well pasted

That, tho' her youth faded, her comeliness lasted;

The blue was wore off, but the plum was well tasted.

Less smooth than her skin and less white than her breast

Was this polished stone beneath which she lies pressed:

Stop, reader, and sigh while thou thinkst on the rest.

With a just trim of virtue her soul was endued,

Not affectedly pious nor secretly lewd

She cut even between the coquette and the prude.

Her will with her duty so equally stood

That, seldom oppos'd, she was commonly good,

And did pretty well, doing just what she would.

Declining all power she found means to persuade,

Was then most regarded when most she obey'd,

The mistress in truth when she seem'd but the maid.

Such care of her own proper actions she took

That on other folk's lives she had not time to look,

So censure and praise were struck out of her book.

Her thought still confin'd to its own little sphere,

She minded not who did excel or did err

But just as the matter related to her.

Then too when her private tribunal was rear'd

Her mercy so mix'd with her judgment appear'd

That her foes were condemn'd and her friends always clear'd.

Her religion so well with her learning did suit

That in practice sincere, and in controverse mute,

She showed she knew better to live than dispute.

Some parts of the Bible by heart she recited,

And much in historical chapters delighted,

But in points about Faith she was something short sighted;

So notions and modes she refer'd to the schools,

And in matters of conscience adher'd to two rules,

To advise with no bigots, and jest with no fools.

And scrupling but little, enough she believ'd,

By charity ample small sins she retriev'd,

And when she had new clothes she always receiv'd.

Thus still whilst her morning unseen fled away

In ord'ring the linen and making the tea

That scarce could have time for the psalms of the day;

And while after dinner the night came so soon

That half she propos'd very seldom was done;

With twenty God bless me's, how this day is gone! --

While she read and accounted and paid and abated,

Eat and drank, play'd and work'd, laugh'd and cried, lov'd and hated,

As answer'd the end of her being created:

In the midst of her age came a cruel disease

Which neither her juleps nor receipts could appease;

So down dropp'd her clay -- may her Soul be at peace!

Retire from this sepulchre all the profane,

You that love for debauch, or that marry for gain,

Retire lest ye trouble the Manes of J___.

But thou that know'st love above int'rest or lust,

Strew the myrle and rose on this once belov'd dust,

And shed one pious tear upon Jinny the Just.

Tread soft on her grave, and do right to her honor,

Let neither rude hand nor ill tongue light upon her,

Do all the small favors that now can be done her.

And when what thou lik'd shall return to her clay,

For so I'm persuaded she must do one day

-- Whatever fantastic John Asgill may say --

When as I have done now, thou shalt set up a stone

For something however distinguished or known,

May some pious friend the misfortune bemoan,

And make thy concern by reflexion his own.

Matthew Prior

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.

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 blush'd: Euphelia frowned:

I sung and gazed: I played and trembled:

And Venus to the Loves around

Remarked, how ill we all dissembled.

Matthew Prior

A True Maid

NO, no; for my virginity,

When I lose that, says Rose, I'll die:

Behind the elms last night, cried Dick,

Rose, were you not extremely sick?

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 Lubin fears that he may die;

His wife, that he may live.

Matthew Prior

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, paint, and jewels on;

All day let envy view her face;

And Phyllis is but twenty-one.

Paint, patches, jewels laid aside,

At night astronomers agree,

The evening has the day belied;

And Phyllis is some forty-three.

Matthew Prior

A Better Answer

DEAR Cloe, how blubber'd is that pretty Face?

Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd:

Pr'ythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaf says)

Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.

How can'st thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy

The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping?

Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy:

More ord'nary 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 Cloe, and what I write, shews

The diff'rence 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 weary'd with wand'ring 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 Cloe, 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.

Matthew Prior