 | Poems by Matthew Stevenson |  |
The Fair Prisoner.
Upon a Gentlewoman that sold the Hair off her Head to the Keepers, but obtained neither Liberty nor lively-hood.
Mony being gone (poor heart) she rob'd her head,
And in exchange gave nature's wig for bread.
Her destiny did to extreams repair:
Sharp was the hunger, sure, cut off Her Hair,
By this, had it continu'd on her Crown?
With pensive care it had been Silver grown.
But, what was silver, when (alas) it would
Not reach her Ransom, at the rate of Gold?
Such Gold, as Jason with the Flower of Greece
Never arriv'd at in the Colchian Fleece.
Which, only were in this to be compar'd,
Each had a Bull, and Dragon for their guard.
Their fate, though, differ'd, there a Prince of Greece,
But here the Bull and Dragon stole the Fleece.
In purer Gold his head did Sol n'ere wrap,
Nor Jove himself pour into Danae's lap.
And, to aggrandise so unvalued things,
Nature turns Goldsmith, forms it all in Rings
Of such, as on Her fore-head She did place,
A Man might read the Posies in her face.
For some, which she indeed did highest prize,
She borrow'd Diamonds from her sparkling eyes.
A smile enamels this; that, the Vermilian
Of a pure Maiden blush turns a Cornelian.
Others hung lower, and on purpose skip
Her Cheek, to steal a Ruby from her lip.
But Her confinement, see what sorrow brings!
Has turn'd them, now, all into mourning rings.
And those her Jaylors wear; who (Villains) strive
To bury all her Beauty, thus, alive.
Had she not been so Bounteous to give,
She might have dy'd Richer than they could live,
And in exchange gave nature's wig for bread.
Her destiny did to extreams repair:
Sharp was the hunger, sure, cut off Her Hair,
By this, had it continu'd on her Crown?
With pensive care it had been Silver grown.
10
Not reach her Ransom, at the rate of Gold?
Such Gold, as Jason with the Flower of Greece
Never arriv'd at in the Colchian Fleece.
Which, only were in this to be compar'd,
Each had a Bull, and Dragon for their guard.
Their fate, though, differ'd, there a Prince of Greece,
But here the Bull and Dragon stole the Fleece.
In purer Gold his head did Sol n'ere wrap,
Nor Jove himself pour into Danae's lap.
And, to aggrandise so unvalued things,
Nature turns Goldsmith, forms it all in Rings
Of such, as on Her fore-head She did place,
A Man might read the Posies in her face.
For some, which she indeed did highest prize,
She borrow'd Diamonds from her sparkling eyes.
A smile enamels this; that, the Vermilian
Of a pure Maiden blush turns a Cornelian.
Others hung lower, and on purpose skip
Her Cheek, to steal a Ruby from her lip.
But Her confinement, see what sorrow brings!
Has turn'd them, now, all into mourning rings.
And those her Jaylors wear; who (Villains) strive
To bury all her Beauty, thus, alive.
Had she not been so Bounteous to give,
She might have dy'd Richer than they could live,
But, as it was with Mydas Golden meat
Who had, indeed, too costly Chear to eat,
Starving his Teeth, he fondly gratifies
The appetite of his insatiate eyes.
Till Hunger did constrain him to entreat
The Gods again, convert his Gold to meat:
Such was the case here, at a loss for Bread,
The Belly picks a quarrel with the Head;
Forthwith the Head does with the Belly joyn,
And curls his Massie Treasure into Coin.
Thus Hunger got the Mastery of Pride,
That Master is to all the World beside.
Whilst, not for Love, but loaves (poor wretch) at length
Like Sampson she discover'd all her strength.
But, as She strives them from her Head to sever
The lovely Locks look back, as loath to leave her.
But touch't, they turn again; who would not grant
That every hair was here a Sens'tive Plant?
Methinks those Curls that must a Prison be
T'anothers head, might let her feet go free.
But now (unhappy thing) in vain she knocks
That could not go, when she possest the locks.
The new shorn Sheep is turn'd out free as air
To fleece, and fold still, 'tis against the hair.
Sure Popery, in this Prison is begun,
They've shav'd her head, and keep her for a Nun.
It had been good yet, and but just, to say
There went the hair, there went the Wench away:
But cruel Stars! she to the Lees was drawn,
And nothing left, she left her self in pawn.
Who had, indeed, too costly Chear to eat,
Starving his Teeth, he fondly gratifies
The appetite of his insatiate eyes.
Till Hunger did constrain him to entreat
The Gods again, convert his Gold to meat:
Such was the case here, at a loss for Bread,
The Belly picks a quarrel with the Head;
11
And curls his Massie Treasure into Coin.
Thus Hunger got the Mastery of Pride,
That Master is to all the World beside.
Whilst, not for Love, but loaves (poor wretch) at length
Like Sampson she discover'd all her strength.
But, as She strives them from her Head to sever
The lovely Locks look back, as loath to leave her.
But touch't, they turn again; who would not grant
That every hair was here a Sens'tive Plant?
Methinks those Curls that must a Prison be
T'anothers head, might let her feet go free.
But now (unhappy thing) in vain she knocks
That could not go, when she possest the locks.
The new shorn Sheep is turn'd out free as air
To fleece, and fold still, 'tis against the hair.
Sure Popery, in this Prison is begun,
They've shav'd her head, and keep her for a Nun.
It had been good yet, and but just, to say
There went the hair, there went the Wench away:
But cruel Stars! she to the Lees was drawn,
And nothing left, she left her self in pawn.
| Poems by Matthew Stevenson | |