Matthew Prior. Dialogues of the Dead and Other Works ::

Behind an unfrequented Glade,
Where Eugh and Myrtle mix their Shade,
A Widow Turtle pensive sat,
And wept her murder'd Lover's Fate.
The Sparrow chanc'd that Way to walk,
(A Bird that loves to chirp and talk)
Besure he did the Turtle greet,
She answer'd him as she thought meet.
Sparrows and Turtles by the bye,
Can think as well as You or I:
But how they did their Thoughts express,
The Margin shows by T, and S.

My Hopes are lost, my Joys are fled,
Alas! I weep Columbo dead:
Come all ye winged Lovers, come,
Drop Pinks and Daisies on his Tomb:
Sing Philomel his Fun'ral Verse,
Ye pious Redbreasts deck his Herse:
Fair Swans extend your Dying-throats,
Columbo's Death requires your Notes:
For Him, my Friends, for Him I moan,
My dear Columbo, dead and gone.

Stretch'd on the Bier Columbo lies,
Pale are his Cheeks, and clos'd his Eyes;
Those Cheeks, where Beauty smiling lay;
Those Eyes, where Love was us'd to play:
Ah cruel Fate, alas! how soon
That Beauty and those Joys are flown!

Columbo is no more, ye Floods,
Bear the sad Sound to distant Woods;
The Sound let Echo's Voice restore,
And say, Columbo is no more.
Ye Floods, ye Woods, ye Echoes, moan
My dear Columbo, dead and gone.

The Driads all forsook the Wood,
And mournful Naiads round me stood,
The tripping Fauns and Fairies came,
All conscious of our mutual Flame,
To sigh for him, with me to moan,
My dear Columbo, dead and gone.

Venus disdain'd not to appear
To lend my Grief a Friendly Ear;
But what avails her Kindness now?
She ne'er shall hear my Second Vow:
The Loves that round their Mother flew,
Did in her Face her Sorrows view.
Their drooping Wings they pensive hung,
Their Arrows broke, their Bows unstrung;
They heard attentive what I said,
And wept with me, Columbo dead:
For Him I sigh, for Him I moan,
My dear Columbo, dead and gone.

'Tis Ours to Weep, great Venus said,
'Tis JOVE's alone to be Obey'd:
Nor Birds, nor Goddesses can move
The just Behests of Fatal JOVE;
I saw thy Mate with sad Regret,
And curs'd the Fowler's cruel Net:
Ah, dear Columbo, how he fell,
Whom Turturella lov'd so well!
I saw him bleeding on the Ground,
The Sight tore up my ancient Wound;
And whilst you wept, alas, I cry'd,
Columbo and Adonis Dy'd.

Weep all ye Streams, ye Mountains groan,
I mourn Columbo, dead and gone;
Still let my tender Grief complain,
Nor Day, nor Night that Grief restrain,

I said, and Venus still reply'd,
Columbo and Adonis Dy'd.

S.
Poor Turturella, hard thy Case,
And just thy Tears, alas, alas!

T.
And hast thou lov'd, and canst thou hear
With piteous Heart a Lover's Care?
Come then, wi[t]h Me thy Sorrows join,
And ease My Woes by telling Thine:
For Thou, poor Bird, perhaps may'st moan
Some Passerella dead and gone.

S.
Dame Turtle, this runs soft in Rhime,
But neither suits the Place nor Time;
That Fowler's Hand, whose cruel Care
For dear Columbo set the Snare,
The Snare again for Thee may set;
Two Birds may perish in One Net.
Thou shou'd'st avoid this cruel Field,
And Sorrow shou'd to Prudence yield.
'Tis sad to Die.

T.
It may be so;
'Tis sadder yet, to Live in Woe.

S.
When Widows use their canting Strain,
They seem resolv'd to wed again.

T.
When Wid'wers wou'd this Truth disprove,
They never tasted real Love.

S.
Love is soft Joy and gentle Strife,
His Efforts all depend on Life:
When he has thrown Two Golden Darts,
And struck the Lovers mutual Hearts;
Of his black Shafts let Death send One,
Alas! the pleasing Game is done,
Ill is the poor Survivor sped,
A Corps feels mighty cold in Bed.
Venus said right, nor Tears can move,
Nor plaints revoke the Will of JOVE.

All must obey the gen'ral Doom,
Down from Alcides to Tom Thumb.
Grim Pluto will not be withstood
By Force or Craft; Tall Robinhood,
As well as Little John, is dead.
(You see how deeply I am read)

With Fate's lean Tipstaff none can dodge,
He'll find you out where e'er you lodge.
Ajax to shun his gen'ral Pow'r,
In vain absconded in a Flower.
An idle Scene Tythonus acted,
When to a Grass-hopper contracted:
Death struck them in those Shapes again,
As once he did when they were Men.

For Reptiles perish, Plants decay,
Flesh is but Grass, Grass turns to Hay,
And Hay to Dung, and Dung to Clay.

Thus Heads extreamly nice, discover,
That Folks may Die, some Ten times over;
But oft by too refin'd a touch,
To prove Things plain, they prove too much.
What e'er Pythagoras may say,
(For each, you know, will have his Way)
With great Submission I pronounce,
That People Die no more than Once:
But Once is sure, and Death is Common
To Bird and Man including Woman.
From the Spread Eagle to the Wren,
Alas! no Mortal Fowl knows when;
All that wear Feathers first or last,
Must one Day perch on Charon's Mast;
Must lye beneath the Cypress Shades,
Where Strada's Nightingale was laid.
Those Fowl who seem Alive to sit,
Assembled by Dan Chaucer's Wit,
In Prose have slept Three Hundred Years,
Exempt from worldly Hopes and Fears,
And laid in State upon their Herse,
Are truly but embalm'd in Verse.
As sure as Lesbia's Sparrow I,
Thou, sure as Prior's Dove, must Die:
And ne'er again from Lethe's Streams
Return to Adda, or to Thames.

T.
I therefore weep Columbo dead,
My Hopes bereav'd, my Pleasures fled;

I therefore must for ever moan
My dear Columbo dead and gone.

S.
Columbo never sees your Tears,
Your Cries Columbo never hears;
A Wall of Brass, and one of Lead,
Divide the Living from the Dead.
Repell'd by this, the gather'd Rain
Of Tears beats back to Earth again,
In t'other the Collected Sound
Of Groans, when once receiv'd, is drown'd.
'Tis therefore vain one Hour to grieve
What Time it-self can ne'er retrieve,
By Nature soft, I know, a Dove
Can never live without her Love;
Then quit this Flame, and light another;
Dame, I advise you like a Brother.

T.
What, I to make a second Choice?
In other Nuptials to rejoyce?

S.
Why not my Bird?

T.
No Sparrow no,
Let me indulge my pleasing woe:
Thus sighing, coeing, ease my Pain,
But never wish nor love again:
Distress'd for ever let me moan
My dear Columbo, dead and gone.

S.
Our winged Friends thro' all the Grove
Contemn thy mad Excess of Love:
I tell thee, Dame, the t'other Day
I met a Parrot and a Jay,
Who mock'd thee in their mimick Tone,
And wept Columbo, dead and gone.

T.
Whate'er the Jay or Parrot said,
My Hopes are lost, my Joys are fled;
And I for ever must deplore
Columbo dead and gone.—

S.
Encore!
For Shame forsake this BION-style,
We'll talk an Hour, and walk a Mile.
Does it with Sense or Health agree,
To sit thus mopeing on a Tree?
To throw away a Widow's Life,
When you again may be a Wife.

Come on, I'll tell you my Amours;
Who knows but they may infl'ence Yours?
Example draws, where Precept fails,
And Sermons are less read than Tales.

T.
Sparrow, I take thee for my Friend,
As such will hear thee, I descend;
Hop on and talk, but honest Bird,
Take care that no immodest Word
May venture to offend my Ear.—

S.
Too Saint-like Turtle, never fear,—
By Method Things are best discours'd,
Begin we then with Wife the first:
A handsome, senseless, awkward Fool
Who wou'd not Yield, and cou'd not Rule:
Her Actions did her Charms disgrace,
And still her Tongue talk'd off her Face:
Count me the Leaves on yonder Tree,
So many diff'rent Wills had she,
And like the Leaves, as Chance inclin'd,
Those Wills were chang'd with every Wind:
She courted the Beau Monde To-night,
L'Assemblèe her supreme Delight.
The next she sat immur'd, unseen,
And in full Health enjoy'd the Spleen.
She censur'd that, she alter'd this,
And with great Care set all amiss;
She now cou'd chide, now laugh, now cry,
Now sing, now pout, all, God knows why:
Short was her Reign, she Cough'd and Dy'd,
Proceed we to my Second Bride;
Well Born she was, genteely Bred,
And Buxom both at Board and Bed,
Glad to oblige, and pleas'd to please,
And, as Tom Southren wisely says,
No other Fault had she in Life,
But only that she was my Wife.
O Widow-Turtle! every She,
(So Nature's Pleasure does Decree)
Appears a Goddess till enjoy'd,
But Birds, and Men, and Gods are cloy'd.

Was Hercules One Woman's Man?
Or Jove for ever Leda's Swan?
Ah! Madam, cease to be mistaken,
Few marry'd Fowl peck Dunmow-Bacon.
Variety alone gives Joy,
The sweetest Meats the soonest cloy:
What Sparrow, Dame? what Dove alive?
Tho' Venus shou'd the Char'ot drive,
But wou'd accuse the Harness-Weight,
If always Coupled to One Mate;
And often wish the Fetter broke,
'Tis Freedom but to Change the Yoke.

T.
Impious to wish to Wed again,
E'er Death dissolv'd the former Chain.

S.
Spare your Remark, and hear the rest,
She brought me Sons, but Jove be blest,
She Dy'd in Child-Bed on the Nest.

Well, rest her Bones, quoth I, she's gone:
But must I therefore lye alone?
What, am I to her Memory ty'd?
Must I not Live, because she Dy'd?
And thus I Logically said,
('Tis good to have a Reas'ning-Head)
Is this my Wife? Probatur, not;
For Death dissolv'd the Marriage-Knot:
She was, Concedo, during Life;
But, is a Piece of Clay, a Wife?
Again, if not a Wife, d'ye see,
Why then no Kin at all to me:
And he who gen'ral Tears can shed
For Folks that happen to be Dead,
May e'en with equal Justice mourn
For those who never yet were born.

T.
Those Points indeed you quaintly prove,
But Logick is no Friend to Love.

S.
My Children then were just pen feather'd:
Some little Corn for them I gather'd,
And sent them to my Spouse's Mother,
So left that Brood to get another.

And as Old Harry Whilome said,
Reflecting on Anne Bullen Dead,
Cocksbones, I now again do stand
The jolly'st Batchelor i'th' Land.

T.
Ah me! my Joys, my Hopes are fled;
My first, my only Love is Dead.
With endless Grief let me bemoan
Columbo's Loss. S. Let me go on.
As yet my Fortune was but narrow,
I woo'd my Cousin Philly Sparrow,
O'th' Elder House of Chirping-End,
From whence the younger Branch descend;
Well seated in a Field of Pease
She liv'd, extreamly at her Ease:
But when the Honey-Moon was past,
The following Nights were soon o'ercast,
She kept her own, could plead the Law,
And Quarrel for a Barley-Straw;
Both, you may judge became less kind,
As more we knew each other's Mind:
She soon grew sullen, I, hard-hearted,
We scolded, hated, fought, and parted.
To LONDON, blessed Town, I went,
She Boarded at a Farm in Kent:
A Magpye from the Country fled,
And kindly told me she was Dead:
I prun'd my Feathers, cock'd my Tail,
And set my Heart again to Sale.

My Fourth, a meer Coquet, or such
I thought her, nor avails it much,
If true or false, our Troubles spring
More from the Fancy than the Thing.
Two staring Horns, I often said,
But ill become a Sparrow's Head;
But then, to set that Balance even,
Your Cuckold-Sparrow goes to Heaven.
The Thing you fear, suppose it done,
If you enquire, you make it known.
Whilst at the Root your Horns are sore,
The more you scratch, they ake the more.

But turn the Tables and reflect,
All may not be, that you suspect:
By the Mind's Eye, the Horns, we mean,
Are only in Ideas seen,
'Tis from the inside of the Head
Their Branches shoot, their Antlers spread;
Fruitful Suspicions often bear them,
You feel 'em from the Time you fear 'em.
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! that Echo'd word,
Offends the Ear of Vulgar Bird;
But those of finer Taste have found
There's nothing in't beside the sound.
Preferment always waits on Horns,
And Houshold Peace the Gift adorns:
This Way, or That, let Factions tend,
The Spark is still the Cuckold's Friend;
This Way, or That, let Madam roam,
Well pleas'd and quiet she comes home.
Now weigh the Pleasure with the Pain,
The plus and minus, Loss and Gain,
And what La Fontaine laughing says,
Is serious Truth, in such a Case;
Who slights the Evil, finds it least,
And who does Nothing, does the best.
I never strove to rule the Roast,
She ne'er refus'd to pledge my Toast:
In Visits if we chanc'd [t]o meet,
I seem'd obliging, she discreet;
We neither much caress'd, nor strove,
But good Dissembling pass'd for Love.

T.
Whate'er of Light our Eye may know,
'Tis only Light it-self can show:
Whate'er of Love our Heart can feel,
'Tis mutual Love alone can tell.

S.
My pretty, amorous, foolish Bird,
A Moment's Patience, in one Word,
The Three kind Sisters broke the Chain,
She Dy'd, I mourn'd, and woo'd again.

T.
Let me with juster Grief deplore
My dear Columbo, now no more;

Let me with constan[t] Tears bewail.—

S.
Your Sorrow does but spoil my Tale.
My Fifth she prov'd a jealous Wife,
Lord shield us all from such a Life!
'Twas Doubt, Complaint, Reply, Chit-Chat,
'Twas This, To-day, To-morrow, That.
Sometimes forsooth, upon the Brook,
I kept a Miss; an honest Rook
Told it a Snipe, who told a Stear,
Who told it those, who told it her.
One Day a Linnet and a Lark
Had met me stroleing in the Dark;
The next, a Woodcock and an Owl
Quick-sighted, grave, and sober Fowl,
Wou'd on their Corp'ral Oath alledge,
I kiss'd a Hen behind the Hedge.
Well, Madam Turtle, to be brief,
(Repeating but renews our Grief)
As once she watch'd me, from a Rail,
Poor Soul! her Footing chanc'd to fail,
And down she fell, and broke her Hip,
The Fever came, and then the Pip:
Death did the only cure apply;
She was at quiet, so was I.

T.
Cou'd Love unmov'd these Changes view?
His Sorrows, as his Joys are true.

S.
My dearest Dove, One wise Man says,
Alluding to our present Case,
We're here To-day, and gone To-morrow:
Then what avails superfl'ous Sorrow?
Another full as wise as he,
Adds; that a Marry'd Man may see
Two happy Hours; and which are they?
The First and Last, perhaps you'll say;
'Tis true, when blithe she goes to Bed,
And when she peaceably lies Dead;
Women 'twixt Sheets are best, 'tis said,
Be they of Holland or of Lead.

Now cur'd of Hymen's Hopes and Fears,
And sliding down the Vale of Years,

I hoped to fix my future Rest,
And took a Widow to my Nest.
Ah Turtle! had she been like Thee,
Sober, yet gentle; wise, yet free;
But she was peevish, noisy, bold,
A Witch ingrafted on a Scold:
Jove in Pandora's Box confin'd
A Hundred Ills to vex Mankind;
To vex one Bird, in her Bandore
He hid at least a Hundred more:
And soon as Time that Veil withdrew,
The Plagues o'er all the Parish flew;
Her Stock of borrow'd Tears grew dry,
And Native Tempests arm'd her Eye,
Black Clouds around her Forehead hung,
And Thunder rattled on her Tongue.
We, Young or Old, or Cock or Hen,
All liv'd in Æolus's Den;
The nearest her, the more accurst,
Ill far'd her Friends, her Husband worst.
But JOVE amidst his Anger spares,
Remarks our Faults, but hears our Pray'rs.
In short, she Dy'd, why then she's Dead
Quoth I, and once again I'll wed.
Wou'd Heaven this Mourning Year was past,
One may have better Luck at last.
Matters at worst are sure to mend,
The DEVIL's Wife was but a Fiend.

T.
Thy Tale has rais'd a Turtle's Spleen,
Uxorious Inmate, Bird obscene,
Dar'st thou defile these Sacred Groves,
These silent Seats of faithful Loves?
Begone, with flagging Wings sit down
On some old Pent-house near the Town;
In Brewers-Stables peck thy Grain,
Then wash it down with puddled Rain:
And hear thy dirty Off-spring Squall
From Bottles on a Suburb-Wall.
Where Thou hast been, return again,
Vile Bird! Thou hast convers'd with Men;

Notions like these, from Men are giv'n,
Those vilest Creatures under Heav'n.

To Cities and to Courts repair,
Flatt'ry and Falshood flourish there:
There, all thy wretched Arts employ,
Where Riches triumph over Joy;
Where Passions do with Int'rest Barter,
And Hymen holds, by Mammon's Charter;
Where Truth by Point of Law is Parry'd,
And Knaves and Prudes are Six-Times Marry'd.

APPLICATION OF THE TURTLE and SPARROW.

O dearest daughter of two dearest friends,
To thee, my muse, this little tale commends;
Loving, and lov'd, regard thy future mate,
Long love his person, tho' deplore his fate.
Seem young, when old, in thy dear husband's arms,
For constant virtue has immortal charms;
And when I lie low sepulcher'd in earth,
And the glad year returns thy day of birth,
Vouchsafe to say e'er I cou'd write or spell,
The Bard, who from my cradle wish'd me well,
Told me I should the prating Sparrow blame,
And bid me imitate the Turtle's fame.

University of Virginia Library

THE Turtle and the Sparrow.

A TALE.

APPLICATION OF THE TURTLE and SPARROW.