Matthew Prior. Dialogues of the Dead and Other Works in Prose and Verse. The Text Edited by A. R. Waller |
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 | Matthew Prior. Dialogues of the Dead and Other Works |  |
DAPHNE and APOLLO.
IMITATED.
Nympha, Precor, Penei mane.—
Ovid. Met. Lib. I.
Ovid. Met. Lib. I.
APOLLO.
Abate, fair fugitive, abate thy speed,
Dismiss thy fears, and turn thy beauteous head,
With kind regard a panting lover view,
Less swiftly fly, less swiftly I'll pursue;
Pathless alas, and rugged is the ground,
Some stone may hurt thee, or some thorn may wound.
DAPHNE.
(Aside.)
This care is for himself, as sure as death,
One mile has put the fellow out of breath;
He'll never do, I'll lead him t' other round,
Washy he is, perhaps not over sound.
92
You fly, alas, not knowing who you fly,
Nor ill bred swain, nor rusty clown am I;
I Claros-isle, and Tenedos command—
DAPHNE.
Thank ye, I wou'd not leave my native land.
APOLLO.
What is to come, by certain arts I know:
DAPHNE.
Pish, Partridge has as fair pretence as you.
APOLLO.
Behold the beauties of my locks.
(Daph.)
A fig—
That may be counterfeit, a Spanish-Wig;
Who cares for all that bush of curling hair,
Whilst your smooth chin is so extremely bare.
That may be counterfeit, a Spanish-Wig;
Who cares for all that bush of curling hair,
Whilst your smooth chin is so extremely bare.
APOLLO.
I sing.
(Daph.)
That never shall be Daphne's choice,
Syphacio had an admirable voice.
Syphacio had an admirable voice.
APOLLO.
Of ev'ry herb I tell the mystic pow'r,
To certain health the patient I restore,
Sent for, caress'd;
(Daph.)
Ours is a wholsome air,
You'd better go to town and practise there:
For me, I've no obstructions to remove,
I'm pretty well, I thank your father Jove,
And physic is a weak ally to love.
You'd better go to town and practise there:
For me, I've no obstructions to remove,
I'm pretty well, I thank your father Jove,
And physic is a weak ally to love.
APOLLO.
For learning fam'd fine verses I compose,
DAPHNE.
So do your brother quacks and brother beaux,
Memorials only, and reviews write prose.
APOLLO.
From the bent yew I send the pointed reed,
Sure of its aim, and fatal in its speed.—
93
Then leaving me whom sure you wou'd n't kill,
In yonder thicket exercise your skill,
Shoot there at beasts, but for the human heart
Your cousin Cupid has the only dart.
APOLLO.
Yet turn, O beauteous maid, yet deign to hear
A love-sick Deity's impetuous pray'r;
O let me woo thee as thou wou'dst be woo'd,
DAPHNE.
First therefore don't be so extremely rude;
Don't tear the hedges down, and tread the clover,
Like a hobgoblin rather than a lover;
Next to my father's grotto sometimes come,
At ebbing tide he always is at home.
Read the Courant with him, and let him know
A little politics, how matters go
Upon his brother-rivers Rhine or Po.
As any maid or footman comes or goes
Pull off your hat, and ask how Daphne does:
These sort of folks will to each other tell
That you respect me; That, you know, looks well:
Then if you are, as you pretend, the God
That rules the day, and much upon the road,
You'll find a hundred trifles in your way,
That you may bring one home from Africa;
Some little rarity, some bird, or beast,
And now and then a jewel from the east,
A lacquer'd-cabinet, some China-ware,
You have them mighty cheap at Pekin-fair.
Next, Nota Bene, you shall never rove,
Nor take example by your father Jove.
Last, for the ease and comfort of my life,
Make me your, lord what startles you, your wife;
I'm now, they say, sixteen, or something more,
We mortals seldom live above fourscore;
Fourscore, y' are good at numbers, let us see,
Seventeen suppose, remaining sixty-three,
Aye, in that span of time, you'll bury me.
Mean time if you have tumult, noise, and strife,
Things not abhorrent to a marry'd life,
They'll quickly end you see, what signify
A few odd years to you that never die;
And after all y' are half your time away,
You know your business takes you up all day,
And coming late to bed you need not fear,
Whatever noise I make, you'll sleep, my dear.
Or if a winter-evening shou'd be long
E'en read you physic book, or make a song.
Your steeds, your wife, diachalon, and rhime,
May take up any honest God-head's time,
Thus, as you like it, you may love again,
And let another Daphne have her reign,
Now love, or leave, my dear: retreat, or follow,
I Daphne, this premis'd, take thee Apollo,
And may I split into ten thousand trees
If I give up, on other terms than these.
Don't tear the hedges down, and tread the clover,
Like a hobgoblin rather than a lover;
Next to my father's grotto sometimes come,
At ebbing tide he always is at home.
Read the Courant with him, and let him know
A little politics, how matters go
Upon his brother-rivers Rhine or Po.
As any maid or footman comes or goes
Pull off your hat, and ask how Daphne does:
These sort of folks will to each other tell
That you respect me; That, you know, looks well:
Then if you are, as you pretend, the God
That rules the day, and much upon the road,
You'll find a hundred trifles in your way,
That you may bring one home from Africa;
Some little rarity, some bird, or beast,
And now and then a jewel from the east,
A lacquer'd-cabinet, some China-ware,
You have them mighty cheap at Pekin-fair.
Next, Nota Bene, you shall never rove,
Nor take example by your father Jove.
Last, for the ease and comfort of my life,
Make me your, lord what startles you, your wife;
I'm now, they say, sixteen, or something more,
We mortals seldom live above fourscore;
94
Seventeen suppose, remaining sixty-three,
Aye, in that span of time, you'll bury me.
Mean time if you have tumult, noise, and strife,
Things not abhorrent to a marry'd life,
They'll quickly end you see, what signify
A few odd years to you that never die;
And after all y' are half your time away,
You know your business takes you up all day,
And coming late to bed you need not fear,
Whatever noise I make, you'll sleep, my dear.
Or if a winter-evening shou'd be long
E'en read you physic book, or make a song.
Your steeds, your wife, diachalon, and rhime,
May take up any honest God-head's time,
Thus, as you like it, you may love again,
And let another Daphne have her reign,
Now love, or leave, my dear: retreat, or follow,
I Daphne, this premis'd, take thee Apollo,
And may I split into ten thousand trees
If I give up, on other terms than these.
She said, but what the am'rous God reply'd,
So fate ordain'd, is to our search deny'd,
By rats alas! the manuscript is eat,
O cruel banquet which we all regret;
Bavius, thy labours must this work restore,
May thy good will be equal to thy pow'r.
So fate ordain'd, is to our search deny'd,
By rats alas! the manuscript is eat,
O cruel banquet which we all regret;
Bavius, thy labours must this work restore,
May thy good will be equal to thy pow'r.
| Matthew Prior. Dialogues of the Dead and Other Works | |