Matthew Prior. Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Matthew met Richard; when or where
From Story is not mighty clear:
Of many knotty Points They spoke;
And Pro and Con by turns They took.
Ratts half the Manuscript have eat:
Dire Hunger! which We still regret:
O! may they ne'er again digest
The Horrors of so sad a Feast.
Yet less our Grief, if what remains,
Dear Jacob, by thy Care and Pains
Shall be to future Times convey'd.
It thus begins:

Here Matthew said:

Alma in Verse; in Prose, the Mind,
By Aristotle's Pen defin'd,
Throughout the Body squat or tall,
Is, bonâ fide, All in All.
And yet, slap dash, is All again
In every Sinew, Nerve, and Vein.
Runs here and there, like Hamlet's Ghost;
While every where She rules the roast.

This System, Richard, We are told,
The Men of Oxford firmly hold.
The Cambridge Wits, You know, deny
With Ipse dixit to comply.
They say (for in good truth They speak
With small Respect of that old Greek)
That, putting all his Words together,
'Tis Three blew Beans in One blew Bladder.

211

Alma, They strenuously maintain,
Sits Cock-horse on Her Throne, the Brain;
And from that Seat of Thought dispenses
Her Sov'reign Pleasure to the Senses.
Two Optic Nerves, They say, She tyes,
Like Spectacles, a-cross the Eyes;
By which the Spirits bring her Word,
Whene'er the Balls are fix'd, or stirr'd;
How quick at Park and Play they strike;
The Duke they court; the Toast they like;
And at ST James's turn their Grace
From former Friends, now out of Place.

Without these Aids, to be more serious,
Her Pow'r, They hold, had been precarious:
The Eyes might have conspir'd her Ruin;
And She not known, what They were doing.
Foolish it had been, and unkind,
That They shou'd see, and She be blind.

Wise Nature likewise, They suppose,
Has drawn two Conduits down our Nose:
Cou'd Alma else with Judgment tell,
When Cabbage stinks, or Roses smell?
Or who wou'd ask for her Opinion
Between an Oyster, and an Onion?
For from most Bodies, Dick, You know,
Some little Bits ask Leave to flow;
And, as thro' these Canals They roll,
Bring up a Sample of the Whole.
Like Footmen running before Coaches,
To tell the Inn, what Lord approaches.

By Nerves about our Palate plac'd,
She likewise judges of the Taste.
Else (dismal Thought!) our Warlike Men
Might drink thick Port for fine Champagne;
And our ill-judging Wives and Daughters
Mistake Small-beer for Citron-Waters.

212

Hence too, that She might better hear,
She sets a Drum at either Ear;
And Loud or Gentle, Harsh or Sweet,
Are but th'Alarums which They beat.

Last, to enjoy her Sense of Feeling
(A thing She much delights to deal in)
A thousand little Nerves She sends
Quite to our Toes, and Fingers Ends;
And These in Gratitude again
Return their Spirits to the Brain;
In which their Figure being printed
(As just before, I think, I hinted)
Alma inform'd can try the Case,
As She had been upon the Place.

Thus, while the Judge gives diff'rent Journeys
To Country Counsel, and Attornies;
He on the Bench in quiet sits,
Deciding, as They bring the Writs.
The Pope thus prays and sleeps at Rome,
And very seldom stirs from Home:
Yet sending forth his Holy Spies,
And having heard what They advise,
He rules the Church's blest Dominions;
And sets Men's Faith by His Opinions.

The Scholars of the Stagyrite,
Who for the Old Opinion fight,
Would make their Modern Friends confess,
The diff'rence but from More to Less.
The Mind, say They, while You sustain
To hold her Station in the Brain;
You grant, at least, She is extended:
Ergo the whole Dispute is ended.
For, 'till To-morrow shou'd You plead
From Form and Structure of the Head;
The Mind as visibly is seen
Extended thro' the whole Machine.
Why shou'd all Honor then be ta'en
From Lower Parts to load the Brain;
When other Limbs we plainly see,

213

Each in his way, as brisk as He?
For Music, grant the Head receives it;
It is the Artist's Hand that gives it.
And tho' the Scull may wear the Laurel;
The Soldier's Arm sustains the Quarrel.
Besides, the Nostrils, Ears, and Eyes
Are not his Parts, but his Allies.
Ev'n what You hear the Tongue proclaim,
Comes ab Origine from them.
What could the Head perform Alone,
If all Their friendly Aids were gone?
A foolish figure He must make;
Do nothing else, but sleep and ake.

Nor matters it, that You can show,
How to the Head that Spirits go.
Those Spirits started from some Goal,
Before they thro' the Veins cou'd roll.
Now We shou'd hold Them much to blame,
If They went back, before They came.

If therefore, as We must suppose,
They came from Fingers, and from Toes;
Or Toes, or Fingers, in this Case,
Of Num-scull's Self shou'd take the Place.
Disputing fair, You grant thus much,
That all Sensation is but Touch.
Dip but your Toes into cold Water;
Their Correspondent Teeth will chatter:
And strike the Bottom of your Feet;
You set your Head into a Heat.
The Bully beat, and happy Lover
Confess, that Feeling lies all over.

Note here, Lucretius dares to teach
(As all our Youth may learn from Creech)
That Eyes were made, but cou'd not view;
Nor Hands embrace, nor Feet pursue:
But heedless Nature did produce
The Members first, and then the Use.
What Each must act, was yet unknown,
'Till All is mov'd by Chance alone.

214

A Man first builds a Country Seat;
Then finds the Walls not good to eat.
Another plants, and wond'ring sees
Nor Books, nor Medals on his Trees.
Yet Poet and Philosopher
Was He, who durst such Whims aver.
Blest, for his Sake, be human Reason,
That came at all, tho' late, in Season.

But no Man sure e'er left his House,
And saddl'd Ball, with Thoughts so wild,
To bring a Midwife to his Spouse,
Before He knew She was with Child.
And no Man ever reapt his Corn,
Or from the Oven drew his Bread,
E'er Hinds and Bakers yet were born,
That taught him both to Sow, and Knead.
Before They're ask'd, can Maids refuse?
Can—Pray, says Dick, hold in your Muse.
While You Pindaric Truths rehearse;
She hobbles in Alternate Verse.
Verse? MAT. reply'd: is that my Care?
Go on, quoth Richard, soft and fair.

This looks, friend Dick, as Nature had
But exercis'd the Salesman's Trade:
As if She haply had sat down,
And cut out Cloaths for all the Town;
Then sent them out to Monmouth-Street,
To try, what Persons they wou'd fit.
But ev'ry Free and Licenc'd Taylor
Would in this Thesis find a Failure.
Should Whims like these his Head perplex,
How could he work for either Sex?
His Cloaths, as Atomes might prevail,
Might fit a Pismire, or a Whale.
No, no: He views with studious Pleasure
Your Shape, before He takes your Measure.
For real Kate He made the Boddice,
And not for an Ideal Goddess.

215

No Error near his Shop-board lurk'd:
He knew the Folks for whom He work'd.
Still to Their Size He aim'd his Skill:
Else, pr'ythee, who wou'd pay his Bill?

Next, Dick, if Chance her self shou'd vary;
Observe, how Matters would miscarry:
Across your Eyes, Friend, place your Shoes;
Your Spectacles upon your Toes:
Then You and Memmius shall agree,
How nicely Men would walk, or see.

But Wisdom, peevish and cross-grain'd,
Must be oppos'd, to be sustain'd.
And still your Knowledge will increase,
As You make other People's less.
In Arms and Science 'tis the same:
Our Rival's Hurts create our Fame.
At Faubert's if Disputes arise
Among the Champions for the Prize;
To prove, who gave the fairer Butt,
John shows the Chalk on Robert's Coat.
So, for the Honor of your Book,
It tells, where other Folks mistook:
And, as their Notions You confound,
Those You invent get farther Ground.

The Commentators on old Ari-
stotle ('tis urg'd) in Judgment vary:
They to their own Conceits have brought
The Image of his general Thought.
Just as the Melancholic Eye
Sees Fleets and Armies in the Sky;
And to the poor Apprentice Ear
The Bells sound Whittington Lord May'r.
The Conj'rer thus explains his Scheme
Thus Spirits walk, and Prophets dream:
North Britons thus have Second Sight;
And Germans free from Gunshot fight.

Theodoret, and Origen,
And fifty other Learned Men

216

Attest, that if their Comments find
The Traces of their Master's Mind;
Alma can ne'er decay nor dye:
This flatly t'other Sect deny,
Simplicius, Theophrast, Durand;
Great Names, but hard in Verse to stand.
They wonder Men should have mistook
The Tenets of their Master's Book;
And hold, that Alma yields her Breath,
O'ercome by Age, and seiz'd by Death.
Now which were Wise? and which were Fools?
Poor Alma sits between two Stools:
The more She reads, the more perplext;
The Comment ruining the Text:
Now fears, now hopes her doubtful Fate:
But, Richard, let her look to That—
Whilst We our own Affairs pursue.

These diff'rent Systems, Old or New,
A Man with half an Eye may see,
Were only form'd to disagree.
Now to bring Things to fair Conclusion,
And save much Christian Ink's Effusion;
Let me propose an Healing Scheme,
And sail along the Middle Stream:
For, Dick, if We could reconcile
Old Aristotle with Gassendus;
How many would admire our Toil;
And yet how few would comprehend us?

Here, Richard, let my Scheme commence.
Oh! may my Words be lost in Sense;
While pleas'd Thalia deigns to write
The Slips and Bounds of Alma's Flight.

My simple System shall suppose,
That Alma enters at the Toes;
That then She mounts by just Degrees
Up to the Ancles, Legs, and Knees:
Next, as the Sap of Life does rise,
She lends her Vigor to the Thighs:

217

And, all these under-Regions past,
She nestles somewhere near the Waste:
Gives Pain or Pleasure, Grief or Laughter;
As We shall show at large hereafter.
Mature, if not improv'd, by Time
Up to the Heart She loves to climb:
From thence, compell'd by Craft and Age,
She makes the Head her latest Stage.

From the Feet upward to the Head;
Pithy, and short, says Dick: proceed.

Dick, this is not an idle Notion:
Observe the Progress of the Motion.
First I demonstratively prove,
That Feet were only made to move;
And Legs desire to come and go:
For they have nothing else to do.

Hence, long before the Child can crawl,
He learns to kick, and wince, and sprawl:
To hinder which, your Midwife knows
To bind Those Parts extremely close;
Lest Alma newly enter'd in,
And stunn'd at her own Christ'ning's Din,
Fearful of future Grief and Pain,
Should silently sneak out again.
Full piteous seems young Alma's Case:
As in a luckless Gamester's Place,
She would not play, yet must not pass.

Again as She grows something stronger,
And Master's Feet are swath'd no longer,
If in the Night too oft He kicks,
Or shows his Loco-motive Tricks;
These first Assaults fat Kate repays Him,
When half asleep She overlays Him.

Now mark, Dear Richard, from the Age
That Children tread this Worldly Stage,
Broom-staff or Poaker they bestride,
And round the Parlor love to ride;

218

'Till thoughtful Father's pious Care
Provides his Brood, next Smithfield Fair,
With Supplemental Hobby-Horses:
And happy be their Infant Courses!

Hence for some Years they ne'er stand still:
Their Legs, You see, direct their Will.
From opening Morn 'till setting Sun,
A-round the Fields and Woods They run:
They frisk, and dance, and leap, and play;
Nor heed, what Friend or Snape can say.

To Her next Stage as Alma flies,
And likes, as I have said, the Thighs:
With Sympathetic Pow'r She warms,
Their good Allies and Friends, the Arms.
While Betty dances on the Green;
And Susan is at Stool-ball seen:
While John for Nine-pins does declare;
And Roger loves to pitch the Bar;
Both Legs and Arms spontaneous move:
Which was the Thing I meant to prove.

Another Motion now She makes:
O need I name the Seat She takes?
His Thought quite chang'd the Stripling finds;
The Sport and Race no more He minds:
Neglected Tray and Pointer lye;
And Covies unmolested fly.
Sudden the jocund Plain He leaves;
And for the Nymph in Secret grieves.
In dying Accents He complains
Of cruel Fires, and raging Pains.
The Nymph too longs to be alone;
Leaves all the Swains; and sighs for One.
The Nymph is warm'd with young Desire;
And feels, and dies to quench His Fire.
They meet each Evening in the Grove:
Their Parley but augments their Love.
So to the Priest their Case They tell:
He ties the Knot; and all goes well.

219

But, O my Muse, just Distance keep:
Thou art a Maid, and must not peep.
In nine Months Time the Boddice loose,
And Petticoats too short, disclose,
That at This Age the active Mind
About the Waste lies most confin'd;
And that young Life, and quick'ning Sense
Spring from His Influence darted thence.
So from the Middle of the World
The Sun's prolifick Rays are hurl'd:
'Tis from That Seat He darts those Beams,
Which quicken Earth with genial Flames.

Dick, who thus long had passive sat,
Here stroak'd his Chin, and cock'd his Hat;
Then slapp'd his Hand upon the Board;
And thus the Youth put in his Word.
Love's Advocates, sweet Sir, would find Him
A higher Place, than You assign'd Him.
Love's Advocates, Dick, who are those?—
The Poets, You may well suppose.
I'm sorry, Sir, You have discarded
The Men, with whom 'till now You herded.
Prose-Men alone, for private Ends,
I thought, forsook their ancient Friends.
In cor stillavit, crys Lucretius;
If He may be allow'd to teach Us.
The self-same Thing soft Ovid says
(A proper Judge in such a Case.)
Horace his Phrase is torret Jecur;
And happy was that curious Speaker.
Here Virgil too has plac'd this Passion:
What signifies too long Quotation?
In Ode and Epic plain the Case is,
That Love holds One of these Two Places.

Dick, without Passion or Reflection,
I'll strait demolish this Objection.

First Poets, all the World agrees,
Write half to profit, half to please.

220

Matter and Figure They produce;
For Garnish This, and That for Use;
And, in the Structure of their Feasts,
They seek to feed, and please their Guests:
But One may balk this good Intent,
And take Things otherwise than meant.
Thus, if You Dine with my Lord May'r,
Roast-Beef, and Ven'son is your Fare;
Thence You proceed to Swan, and Bustard,
And persevere in Tart, and Custard:
But Tulip-leaves, and Limon-peel
Help only to adorn the Meal;
And painted Flags, superb and neat,
Proclaim You welcome to the Treat.
The Man of Sense his Meat devours;
But only smells the Peel, and Flow'rs:
And He must be an idle Dreamer,
Who leaves the Pie, and gnaws the Streamer.

That Cupid goes with Bow and Arrows,
And Venus keeps her Coach and Sparrows,
Is all but Emblem, to acquaint One,
The Son is sharp, the Mother wanton.
Such Images have sometimes shown
A Mystic Sense, but oft'ner None.
For who conceives, what Bards devise,
That Heav'n is plac'd in Celia's Eyes?
Or where's the Sense, direct or moral,
That Teeth are Pearl, or Lips are Coral?

Your Horace owns, He various writ,
As wild, or sober Maggots bit:
And, where too much the Poet ranted,
The Sage Philosopher recanted.
His grave Epistles may disprove
The wanton Odes He made to Love.

Lucretius keeps a mighty Pother
With Cupid, and his fancy'd Mother:
Calls her great Queen of Earth and Air;
Declares, that Winds and Seas obey Her;

221

And, while Her Honor he rehearses,
Implores Her to inspire his Verses.

Yet, free from this Poetic Madness;
Next Page, He says in sober Sadness,
That She and all her fellow-Gods
Sit idling in their high Abodes,
Regardless of this World below,
Our Health or Hanging, Weal or Woe;
Nor once disturb their Heav'nly Spirits
With Scapin's Cheats, or Cæsar's Merits.

Nor e'er can Latin Poets prove,
Where lies the real Seat of Love.
Jecur they burn, and Cor they pierce,
As either best supplies their Verse:
And, if Folks ask the Reason for't,
Say, one was long, and t'other short.
Thus, I presume, the British Muse,
May take the Freedom Strangers use.
In Prose our Property is greater:
Why should it then be less in Metre?
If Cupid throws a single Dart;
We make him wound the Lover's Heart:
But if He takes his Bow, and Quiver;
'Tis sure, He must transfix the Liver:
For Rhime with Reason may dispense;
And Sound has Right to govern Sense.

But let your Friends in Verse suppose,
What ne'er shall be allow'd in Prose:
Anatomists can make it clear,
The Liver minds his own Affair:
Kindly supplies our publick Uses;
And parts, and strains the Vital Juices:
Still lays some useful Bile aside,
To tinge the Chyle's insipid Tide:
Else We should want both Gibe and Satyr;
And all be burst with pure Good-nature.
Now Gall is bitter with a Witness;
And Love is all Delight and Sweetness.

222

My Logic then has lost it's Aim,
If Sweet and Bitter be the same:
And He, methinks, is no great Scholar,
Who can mistake Desire for Choler.

The like may of the Heart be said:
Courage and Terror there are bred.
All those, whose Hearts are loose and low,
Start, if they hear but the Tattoo:
And mighty Physical their Fear is:
For, soon as Noise of Combat near is,
Their Heart, descending to their Breeches,
Must give their Stomach cruel twitches.
But Heroes who o'ercome or dye,
Have their Hearts hung extremely high;
The Strings of which, in Battel's Heat,
Against their very Corslets beat;
Keep Time with their own Trumpet's Measure;
And yield 'em most excessive Pleasure.

Now if 'tis chiefly in the Heart,
That Courage does it self exert;
'Twill be prodigious hard to prove,
That This is eke the Throne of Love.
Would Nature make One Place the Seat
Of fond Desire, and fell Debate?
Must People only take Delight in
Those Hours, when They are tir'd with Fighting?
And has no Man, but who has kill'd
A Father, right to get a Child?
These Notions then I think but idle:
And Love shall still possess the Middle.

This Truth more plainly to discover,
Suppose your Hero were a Lover.
Tho' He before had Gall and Rage,
Which Death, or Conquest must asswage;
He grows dispirited and low:
He hates the Fight, and shuns the Foe.

In scornful Sloth Achilles slept;
And for his Wench, like Tall-boy, wept:

223

Nor would return to War and Slaughter;
'Till They brought back the Parson's Daughter.

Antonius fled from Actium's Coast,
Augustus pressing, Asia lost:
His Sails by Cupid's Hand unfurl'd,
To keep the Fair, he gave the World.

Edward our Fourth, rever'd and crown'd,
Vig'rous in Youth, in Arms renown'd;
While England's Voice, and Warwick's Care
Design'd him Gallia's beauteous Heir;
Chang'd Peace and Pow'r for Rage and Wars,
Only to dry One Widow's Tears.

France's fourth Henry we may see,
A Servant to the fair d'Estree;
When quitting Coutras prosp'rous Field,
And Fortune taught at length to yield,
He from his Guards and Mid-night Tent,
Disguis'd o'er Hills and Vallies went,
To wanton with the sprightly Dame;
And in his Pleasure lost his Fame.

Bold is the Critic, who dares prove,
These Heroes were no Friends to Love;
And bolder He, who dares aver,
That they were Enemies to War.
Yet, when their Thought should, now or never,
Have rais'd their Heart, or fir'd their Liver;
Fond Alma to those Parts was gone,
Which Love more justly calls his own.

Examples I could cite You more;
But be contented with these Four:
For when One's Proofs are aptly chosen;
Four are as valid as four Dozen.
One came from Greece, and one from Rome;
The other Two grew nearer Home.
For some in Antient Books delight:
Others prefer what Moderns write:
Now I should be extremely loath,
Not to be thought expert in Both.