And yet it grieves my heart
So soon from her to part:

Death strike me with his dart!
Phillada flouts me.

Thou shalt eat crudded cream
All the year lasting,

And drink the crystal stream
Pleasant in tasting,

Whig and whey whilst thou lust,
And ramble-berries,

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:
Phillada flouts me.

Fair maiden! have a care,
And in time take me;

I can have those as fair,

If you forsake me: For Doll the dairy maid

Laughed at me lately,

And wanton Winifred

Favours me greatly.

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
At all in season:

Love wounds my heart so deep,
Without all reason.

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,
Within this thousand year:
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,
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.