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

But shall we take the Muse abroad,
To drop her idly on the Road?
And leave our Subject in the middle;
As Butler did his Bear and Fiddle?
Yet He, consummate Master, knew
When to recede, and where pursue:
His noble Negligences teach,
What Others Toils despair to reach.
He, perfect Dancer, climbs the Rope,
And balances your Fear and Hope:
If after some distinguish'd Leap,
He drops his Pole, and seems to slip;
Straight gath'ring all his active Strength,
He rises higher half his Length.
With Wonder You approve his Slight;
And owe your Pleasure to your Fright.
But, like poor Andrew, I advance,
False Mimic of my Master's Dance:
A-round the Cord a while I sprawl;
And thence, tho' low, in earnest fall.

My Preface tells You, I digress'd:
He's half absolv'd who has confess'd.

I like, quoth Dick, your Simile:
And in Return, take Two from Me.
As Masters in the Clare-obscure,
With various Light your Eyes allure:
A flaming Yellow here They spread;
Draw off in Blew, or charge in Red:
Yet from these Colors odly mix'd,
Your Sight upon the Whole is fix'd.

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Or as, again, your Courtly Dames,
(Whose Cloaths returning Birth-Day claims,)
By Arts improve the Stuffs they vary;
And Things are best, as most contrary.
The Gown with stiff Embroid'ry shining,
Looks charming with a slighter Lining:
The Out-, if Indian Figures stain;
The In-side must be rich and plain.
So You, great Authors, have thought fit,
To make Digression temper Wit:
When Arguments too fiercely glare;
You calm 'em with a milder Air:
To break their Points, You turn their Force;
And Furbelow the plain Discourse.

Richard, quoth Mat, these Words of Thine,
Speak something sly, and something fine:
But I shall e'en resume my Theme;
However Thou may'st praise, or blame.

As People marry now, and settle;
Fierce Love abates his usual Mettle:
Worldly Desires, and Household Cares
Disturb the Godhead's soft Affairs:
So now, as Health or Temper changes,
In larger Compass Alma ranges,
This Day below, the next above;
As light, or solid Whimsies move.
So Merchant has his House in Town,
And Country-Seat near Bansted Down:
From One he dates his Foreign Letters,
Sends out his Goods, and duns his Debtors:
In t'other, at his Hours of Leisure,
He smokes his Pipe, and takes his Pleasure.

And now your Matrimonial Cupid,
Lash'd on by Time, grows tir'd and stupid.
For Story and Experience tell Us,
That Man grows cold, and Woman jealous.
Both would their little Ends secure:
He sighs for Freedom, She for Pow'r.

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His Wishes tend abroad to roam;
And Her's, to domineer at Home.
Thus Passion flags by slow Degrees;
And ruffl'd more, delighted less,
The busy Mind does seldom go
To those once charming Seats below:
But, in the Breast incamp'd, prepares
For well-bred Feints, and future Wars.
The Man suspects his Lady's crying
(When he last Autumn lay a-dying)
Was but to gain him to appoint Her
By Codicil a larger Jointure.
The Woman finds it all a Trick,
That He could swoon, when She was sick;
And knows, that in That Grief he reckon'd
On black-ey'd Susan for his Second.

Thus having strove some tedious Years
With feign'd Desires, and real Fears;
And tir'd with Answers, and Replies,
Of John affirms, and Martha lies;
Leaving this endless Altercation,
The Mind affects a higher Station.

Poltis, that gen'rous King of Thrace,
I think, was in this very Case.
All Asia now was by the Ears:
And Gods beat up for Voluntiers
To Greece, and Troy; while Poltis sat
In Quiet, governing his State.
And whence, said the Pacific King,
Does all this Noise, and Discord spring?
Why, Paris took Atrides' Wife—
With Ease I could compose this Strife:
The injur'd Hero should not lose,
Nor the young Lover want a Spouse:
But Helen chang'd her first Condition,
Without her Husband's just Permission.
What from the Dame can Paris hope?
She may as well from Him elope.
Again, how can her old Good-man

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With Honor take Her back again?
From hence I logically gather,
The Woman cannot live with Either.
Now I have Two right honest Wives,
For whose Possession No Man strives:
One to Atrides I will send;
And t'other to my Trojan Friend.
Each Prince shall thus with Honor have,
What Both so warmly seem to crave:
The Wrath of Gods and Man shall cease;
And Poltis live and die in Peace.

Dick, if this Story pleaseth Thee,
Pray thank Dan Pope, who told it Me.

Howe'er swift Alma's Flight may vary;
(Take this by way of Corollary:)
Some Limbs She finds the very same,
In Place, and Dignity, and Name:
These dwell at such convenient Distance,
That each may give his Friend Assistance.
Thus He who runs or dances, begs
The equal Vigor of Two Legs:
So much to both does Alma trust,
She ne'er regards, which goes the first.
Teague could make neither of them stay,
When with Himself he ran away.
The Man who struggles in the Fight,
Fatigues left Arm, as well as right:
For whilst one Hand exalts the Blow,
And on the Earth extends the Foe;
T'other would take it wond'rous ill,
If in your Pocket He lay still.
And when you shoot, and shut one Eye,
You cannot think, He would deny
To lend the t'other friendly Aid,
Or wink, as Coward, and affraid.
No, Sir; whilst He withdraws his Flame,
His Comrade takes the surer Aim.
One Moment if his Beams recede;
As soon as e'er the Bird is dead,

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Opening again, He lays his Claim,
To half the Profit, half the Fame,
And helps to Pocket up the Game.
'Tis thus, One Tradesman slips away,
To give his Part'ner fairer Play.

Some Limbs again in Bulk or Stature
Unlike, and not a-kin by Nature,
In Concert act, like modern Friends;
Because one serves the t'other's Ends.
The Arm thus waits upon the Heart,
So quick to take the Bully's Part,
That one, tho' warm, decides more slow,
Than t'other executes the Blow.
A Stander-by may chance to have it,
E'er Hack himself perceives, He gave it.

The am'rous Eyes thus always go
A-stroling for their Friends below:
For long before the 'Squire and Dame
Have tête à tête reliev'd their Flame;
E'er Visits yet are brought about,
The Eye by Sympathy looks out;
Knows Florimel, and longs to meet Her;
And, if He sees, is sure to greet Her,
Tho' at Sash-Window, on the Stairs,
At Court, nay (Authors say) at Pray'rs.—

The Funeral of some valiant Knight
May give this Thing it's proper Light.
View his Two Gantlets: these declare,
That Both his Hands were us'd to War.
And from his Two gilt Spurs 'tis learn'd,
His Feet were equally concern'd.
But have You not with Thought beheld
The Sword hang dangling o'er the Shield?
Which shows the Breast, That Plate was us'd to,
Had an Ally right Arm to trust to.
And by the Peep-holes in his Crest,
Is it not virtually confest,
That there his Eye took distant Aim,

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And glanc'd Respect to that bright Dame,
In whose Delight his Hope was center'd,
And for whose Glove his Life he ventur'd?

Objections to my general System
May 'rise, perhaps, and I have mist them:
But I can call to my Assistance
Proximity (mark that!) and Distance:
Can prove, that all Things, on Occasion,
Love Union, and desire Adhesion;
That Alma merely is a Scale;
And Motives, like the Weights, prevail.
If neither Side turn down or up,
With Loss or Gain, with Fear or Hope;
The Balance always would hang ev'n,
Like Mah'met's Tomb, 'twixt Earth and Heav'n.

This, Richard, is a curious Case:
Suppose your Eyes sent equal Rays
Upon two distant Pots of Ale,
Not knowing, which was Mild or Stale:
In this sad State your doubtful Choice
Would never have the casting Voice:
Which Best, or Worst, You could not think;
And die You must, for want of Drink:
Unless some Chance inclines your Sight,
Setting one Pot in fairer Light;
Then You prefer or A, or B,
As Lines and Angles best agree:
Your Sense resolv'd impells your Will;
She guides your Hand,—So drink your Fill.

Have you not seen a Baker's Maid
Between two equal Panniers sway'd?
Her Tallies useless lie, and idle,
If plac'd exactly in the Middle:
But forc'd from this unactive State,
By virtue of some casual Weight;
On either Side You hear 'em clatter,
And judge of right and left-hand Matter.

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Now, Richard, this coercive Force,
Without your Choice, must take it's Course.
Great Kings to Wars are pointed forth,
Like loaded Needles to the North.
And Thou and I, by Pow'r unseen,
Are barely Passive, and suck'd in
To Henault's Vaults, or Celia's Chamber,
As Straw and Paper are by Amber.
If we sit down to play or set
(Suppose at Ombre or Basset)
Let People call us Cheats, or Fools;
Our Cards and We are equal Tools.
We sure in vain the Cards condemn:
Our selves both cut and shuffl'd them.
In vain on Fortune's Aid rely:
She only is a Stander-by.
Poor Men! poor Papers! We and They
Do some impulsive Force obey;
And are but play'd with:—Do not play.
But Space and Matter we should blame:
They palm'd the Trick that lost the Game.

Thus to save further Contradiction,
Against what You may think but Fiction;
I for Attraction, Dick, declare:
Deny it those bold Men that dare.
As well your Motion, as your Thought
Is all by hidden Impulse wrought:
Ev'n saying, that You Think or Walk,
How like a Country 'Squire you talk?

Mark then;—Where Fancy or Desire
Collects the Beams of Vital Fire;
Into that Limb fair Alma slides,
And there, pro tempore, resides.
She dwells in Nicholini's Tongue,
When Pyrrhus chants the Heav'nly Song.
When Pedro does the Lute command,
She guides the cunning Artist's Hand.
Thro' Macer's Gullet she runs down,
When the vile Glutton dines alone.

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And void of Modesty and Thought,
She follows Bibo's endless Draught.
Thro' the soft Sex again She ranges;
As Youth, Caprice, or Fashion changes.
Fair Alma careless and serene,
In Fanny's sprightly Eyes is seen;
While they diffuse their Infant Beams,
Themselves not conscious of their Flames.
Again fair Alma sits confest,
On Florimel's experter Breast;
When She the rising Sigh constrains,
And by concealing speaks her Pains.
In Cynthia's Neck fair Alma glows;
When the vain Thing her Jewels shows:
When Jenny's Stays are newly lac'd,
Fair Alma plays about her Waste;
And when the swelling Hoop sustains
The rich Brocard, fair Alma deigns
Into that lower Space to enter,
Of the large Round, Her self the Center.

Again: That Single Limb or Feature
(Such is the cogent Force of Nature)
Which most did Alma's Passion move,
In the first Object of her Love,
For ever will be found confest,
And printed on the am'rous Breast.

O Abelard, ill-fated Youth,
Thy Tale will justify this Truth:
But well I weet, thy cruel Wrong
Adorns a nobler Poet's Song.
Dan Pope for thy Misfortune griev'd,
With kind Concern, and Skill has weav'd
A silken Web; and ne'er shall fade
It's Colors: gently has He laid
The Mantle o'er thy sad Distress:
And Venus shall the Texture bless.
He o'er the weeping Nun has drawn,
Such artful Folds of Sacred Lawn,

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That Love with equal Grief and Pride,
Shall see the Crime, He strives to hide:
And softly drawing back the Veil,
The God shall to his Vot'ries tell
Each conscious Tear, each blushing Grace,
That deck'd Dear Eloisa's Face.

Happy the Poet, blest the Lays,
Which Buckingham has deign'd to praise.

Next, Dick, as Youth and Habit sways,
A hundred Gambols Alma plays.
If, whilst a Boy, Jack run from Schole,
Fond of his Hunting-horn, and Pole;
Tho' Gout and Age his Speed detain,
Old John halloo's his Hounds again.
By his Fire-side he starts the Hare;
And turns Her in his Wicker-Chair:
His Feet, however lame, You find,
Have got the better of his Mind.

If while the Mind was in her Leg,
The Dance affected nimble Peg;
Old Madge, bewitch'd at Sixty one,
Calls for Green Sleeves, and Jumping Joan.
In public Mask, or private Ball,
From Lincoln's Inn, to Goldsmith's Hall,
All Christmas long away She trudges;
Trips it with Prentices and Judges:
In vain her Children urge her Stay;
And Age or Palsey bar the Way.
But if those Images prevail,
Which whilom did affect the Tail;
She still reviews the ancient Scene;
Forgets the forty Years between:
Awkwardly gay, and odly merry,
Her Scarf pale Pink, her Head-Knot Cherry;
O'er heated with Ideal Rage,
She cheats her Son, to wed her Page.

If Alma, whilst the Man was young,
Slip'd up too soon into his Tongue:

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Pleas'd with his own fantastic Skill,
He lets that Weapon ne'er lie still.
On any Point if You dispute;
Depend upon it, He'll confute:
Change Sides; and You increase your Pain:
For He'll confute You back again.
For One may speak with Tully's Tongue;
Yet all the while be in the wrong.
And 'tis remarkable, that They
Talk most, who have the least to say.
Your dainty Speakers have the Curse,
To plead bad Causes down to worse:
As Dames, who Native Beauty want,
Still uglier look, the more They paint.

Again: If in the Female Sex
Alma should on this Member fix;
(A cruel and a desp'rate Case,
From which Heav'n shield my lovely Lass!)
For evermore all Care is vain,
That would bring Alma down again.
As in habitual Gout, or Stone,
The only Thing that can be done,
Is to correct your Drink and Diet,
And keep the inward Foe in Quiet:
So, if for any Sins of Our's,
Or our Forefathers, Higher Pow'rs,
Severe tho' just, afflict our Life
With that Prime Ill, a talking Wife;
'Till Death shall bring the kind Relief,
We must be Patient, or be Deaf.

You know, a certain Lady, Dick,
Who saw Me, when I last was sick:
She kindly talk'd, at least three Hours,
Of Plastic Forms, and Mental Pow'rs:
Describ'd our pre-existing Station,
Before this vile Terrene Creation:
And lest I should be weary'd, Madam,
To cut Things short, came down to Adam;

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From whence, as fast as She was able,
She drowns the World, and builds up Babel;
Thro' Syria, Persia, Greece She goes;
And takes the Romans in the Close.

But We'll descant on gen'ral Nature:
This is a System, not a Satyr.

Turn We this Globe; and let Us see,
How diff'rent Nations disagree,
In what We wear, or eat and drink;
Nay, Dick, perhaps in what We think.
In Water as You smell and tast
The Soyls, thro' which it rose and past:
In Alma's Manners You may read
The Place, where She was born and bred.

One People from their swadling Bands
Releas'd their Infants Feet and Hands:
Here Alma to these Limbs was brought;
And Sparta's Offspring kick'd and fought.

Another taught their Babes to talk,
E'er they could yet in Goe-carts walk:
There Alma settl'd in the Tongue;
And Orators from Athens sprung.

Observe but in these Neighb'ring Lands,
The diff'rent Use of Mouths and Hands:
As Men repos'd their various Hopes,
In Battles These, and Those in Tropes.

In Britain's Isles, as Heylyn notes,
The Ladies trip in Petticoats;
Which, for the Honor of their Nation,
They quit but on some great Occasion.
Men there in Breeches clad You view:
They claim that Garment, as their due.
In Turkey the Reverse appears;
Long Coats the haughty Husband wears,
And greets His Wife with angry Speeches;
If She be seen without her Breeches.

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In our Fantastic Climes the Fair
With cleanly Powder dry their Hair:
And round their lovely Breast and Head
Fresh Flow'rs their mingl'd Odors shed.
Your nicer Hottentotes think meet
With Guts and Tripe to deck their Feet:
With down-cast Looks on Totta's Legs,
The ogling Youth most humbly begs,
She would not from his Hopes remove
At once his Breakfast, and his Love:
And if the skittish Nymph should fly;
He in a double Sense must die.

We simple Toasters take Delight
To see our Women's Teeth look white.
And ev'ry saucy ill-bred Fellow
Sneers at a Mouth profoundly yellow.
In China none hold Women sweet,
Except their Snags are black as Jett.
King Chihu put Nine Queens to Death,
Convict on Statute, Iv'ry Teeth.

At Tonquin if a Prince should die;
(As Jesuits write, who never lye)
The Wife, and Counsellor, and Priest,
Who serv'd Him most, and lov'd Him best;
Prepare, and light his Fun'ral Fire,
And chearful on the Pile expire.
In Europe 'twould be hard to find
In each Degree One half so kind.

Now turn We to the farthest East,
And there observe the Gentry Drest.
Prince Giolo, and his Royal Sisters,
Scarr'd with ten thousand comely Blisters;
The Marks remaining on the Skin,
To tell the Quality within.
Distinguish'd Slashes deck the Great:
As each excells in Birth, or State;
His Oylet-holes are more, and ampler:
The King's own Body was a Samplar.

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Happy the Climate, where the Beau
Wears the same Suit for Use, and Show:
And at a small Expence your Wife,
If once well pink'd, is cloth'd for Life.

Westward again the Indian Fair,
Is nicely smear'd with Fat of Bear.
Before You see, You smell your Toast,
And sweetest She, who stinks the most.
The finest Sparks, and cleanest Beaux
Drip from the Shoulders to the Toes.
How sleek their Skins! their Joints how easy!
There Slovens only are not greasy.

I mention'd diff'rent Ways of Breeding:
Begin We in our Children's Reading.
To Master John the English Maid
A Horn-book gives of Ginger-bread:
And that the Child may learn the better,
As He can name, He eats the Letter:
Proceeding thus with vast Delight,
He spells, and gnaws, from Left to Right.
But shew a Hebrew's hopeful Son,
Where We suppose the Book begun;
The Child would thank You for your Kindness,
And read quite backward from our Finis:
Devour He Learning ne'er so fast;
Great A would be reserv'd the last.

An equal Instance of this Matter,
Is in the Manners of a Daughter.
In Europe, if a harmless Maid,
By Nature and by Love betray'd,
Should e'er a Wife become a Nurse;
Her Friends would look on Her the Worse.
In China, Dampier's Travels tell Ye;
(Look in his Index for Pagelli:)
Soon as the British Ships unmoore,
And jolly Long-boat rows to Shore;
Down come the Nobles of the Land:
Each brings his Daughter in his Hand,

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Beseeching the Imperious Tar
To make Her but One Hour his Care.
The tender Mother stands affrighted,
Lest her dear Daughter should be slighted:
And poor Miss Yaya dreads the Shame
Of going back the Maid She came.

Observe how Custom, Dick, compells
The Lady that in Europe dwells:
After her Tea She slips away;
And what to do, One need not say.
Now see how great Pomonque's Queen
Behav'd Herself amongst the Men:
Pleas'd with her Punch, the Gallant Soul
First drank, then water'd in the Bowl;
And sprinkl'd in the Captain's Face
The Marks of Her Peculiar Grace—

To close this Point, We need not roam
For Instances so far from Home.
What parts gay France from sober Spain?
A little rising Rocky Chain.
Of Men born South or North o'th' Hill,
Those seldom move; These ne'er stand still.
Dick, You love Maps, and may perceive
Rome not far distant from Geneve.
If the good Pope remains at Home,
He's the First Prince in Christendome.
Choose then, good Pope, at Home to stay;
Nor Westward curious take Thy Way.
Thy Way unhappy should'st Thou take
From Tiber's Bank to Leman-Lake;
Thou art an Aged Priest no more,
But a Young flaring Painted Whore:
Thy Sex is lost: Thy Town is gone,
No longer Rome, but Babylon.
That some few Leagues should make this Change,
To Men unlearn'd seems mighty strange.

But need We, Friend, insist on This?
Since in the very Cantons Swiss,

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All Your Philosophers agree,
And prove it plain, that One may be
A Heretic, or True Believer,
On this, or t'other Side a River.

Here with an artful Smile, quoth Dick,
Your Proofs come mighty full, and thick—

The Bard on this extensive Chapter,
Wound up into Poetic Rapture,
Continu'd: Richard, cast your Eye
By Night upon a Winter-Sky:
Cast it by Day-light on the Strand,
Which compasses fair Albion's Land:
If You can count the Stars that glow
Above, or Sands that lie below;
Into those Common-places look,
Which from great Authors I have took;
And count the Proofs I have collected,
To have my Writings well protected.
These I lay by for Time of Need;
And Thou may'st at thy Leisure read.
For standing every Critic's Rage,
I safely will to future Age
My System, as a Gift, bequeath,
Victorious over Spight, and Death.