Trust me, howe'er the vain may jest,
Or the severe advise,
"Tis passion only makes us blest,
And only shows us wise.
Take human life in all its shapes,
Free from Love's gentle rules
We're all but pert light giddy apes,
Or dull grave solemn fools.
Think then how we've the past misspent,
And what's to come improve;
Betimes grow wisely penitent;
Take up, and turn to Love.
So good a work needs no debate,
"Tis high time 'twere begun ;
When pleasure on repentance waits,
Who can repent too soon?
MATTHEW PRIOR (1664-1721)
An Ode
The merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrow'd 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 frown'd:
I sung and gaz'd; I play'd and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around
Remark'd, how ill we all dissembled.
See, whilst thou weep'st, fair Cloe, see
The world in sympathy with thee.
The cheerful birds no longer sing,
Each drops his head, and hangs his wing.
The clouds have bent their bosom lower,
And shed their sorrows in a shower.
The brooks beyond their limits flow;
And louder murmurs speak their woe.
The nymphs and swains adopt thy cares :
They heave thy sighs, and weep thy tears.
Fantastic nymph! that grief should move
Thy heart, obdurate against love.
Strange tears! whose power can soften all,
But that dear breast on which they fall.
Farewell, Amynta, we must part;
The charm has lost its power,
Which held so fast my captiv'd heart
Until this fatal hour.
Hadst thou not thus my love abus'd,
And us'd me ne'er so ill,
Thy cruelty I had excus'd,
And I had lov'd thee still.
But know, my soul disdains thy sway,
And scorns thy charms and thee,
To which each fluttering coxcomb may
As welcome be as me.
Think in what perfect bliss you reign'd,
How lov'd before thy fall;
And now, alas! how much disdain'd
By me, and scorn'd by all.
Yet thinking of each happy hour,
Which I with thee have spent,
So robs my rage of all its power,
That I almost relent.
But pride will never let me bow,
No more thy charms can move :
Yet thou art worth my pity now,
Because thou hadst my love.
The Lady who offers her looking-glass to Venus
Venus, take my votive glass,
Since I am not what I was;
What from this day I shall be,
Venus, let me never see.
To John I ow'd great obligation;
But John, unhappily, thought fit
To publish it to all the nation :
Sure John and I are more than quit.
Yes, every poet is a fool :
By demonstration Ned can show it :
Happy, could Ned's inverted rule
Prove every fool to be a poet.
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 cried : "O cruel! couldst 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."
In vain you tell your parting lover,
You wish fair winds may waft him over.
Alas! what winds can happy prove,
That bear me far from what I love?
Alas! what dangers on the main
Can equal those that I sustain,
From slighted vows, and cold disdain ?
Be gentle, and in pity choose
To wish the wildest tempests loose :
That thrown again upon the coast,
Where first my shipwreck'd heart was lost,
I may once more repeat my pain;
Once more in dying notes complain
Of slighted vows, and cold disdain.
The pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet, and lily fair,
The dappled pink, and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Cloe's hair.
At morn the nymph vouchsaf'd to place Upon her brow the various wreath ; The flowers less blooming than her face, The scent less fragrant than her breath.
The flowers she wore along the day,
And every nymph and shepherd said.
That in her hair they look'd more gay,
Than glowing in their native bed.
Undress'd at evening, when she found
Their odours lost, their colours past;
She chang'd her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eye she cast.
That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear, As any Muse's tongue could speak; When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.
Dissembling what I knew too well,
"My love, my life," said I," explain This change of humour: prithee tell : That falling tear-what does it mean?
She sigh'd; she smil'd: and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said:
"See! friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder what a change is made.
"Ah me! the blooming pride of May,
And that of beauty are but one :
At morn both flourish bright and gay,
Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.
66 At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung ; The am'rous youth around her bow'd : At night her fatal knell was rung;
I saw, and kiss'd her in her shroud.
"Such as she is, who died to-day;
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow: Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display The justice of thy Cloe's sorrow."
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