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

Two Mice (dear boy) of genteel fashion,
And (what is more) good education,
Frolic and gay, in infant years,
Equally shar'd their parents cares.
The sire of these two babes (poor creature)
Paid his last debt to human nature;
A wealthy widow left behind,
Four babes, three male, one female kind.
The sire b'ing under ground, and bury'd,
'Twas thought his spouse would soon have marry'd;
Matches propos'd, and num'rous suitors,
Most tender husbands, careful tutors,
She modestly refus'd; and show'd
She'd be a mother to her brood.

Mother, dear mother, that endearing thought,
Has thousand, and ten thousand, fancies brought;
Tell me, O! tell me (thou art now above)
How to describe thy true maternal love,
Thy early pangs, thy growing anxious cares,
Thy flatt'ring hopes, thy fervent pious pray'rs,
Thy doleful days, and melancholy nights,
Cloyster'd from common joys, and just delights:

How thou didst constantly in private mourn,
And wash with daily tears thy spouse's urn;
How it employ'd your thoughts, and lucid time,
That your young offspring might to honour climb;
How your first care by num'rous griefs opprest,
Under the burthen sunk, and went to rest;
How your dear darling, by consumption's waste,
Breath'd her last piety into your breast;
How you alas! tyr'd with your pilgrimage,
Bow'd down your head, and dy'd in good old age.
Tho' not inspir'd, O! may I never be
Forgetful of my pedigree, or thee,
Ungrateful howsoe'er, mayn't I forget
To pay this small, yet tributary debt,
And when we meet at God's tribunal throne,
Own me, I pray thee, for a pious son.

But why all this? is this your fable?
Believe me Matt, it seems a bauble,
If you will let me know th' intent on't,
Go to your Mice, and make an end on't.

Well then dear brother,—
As sure as Hudi's sword could swaddle,
Two Mice were brought up in one cradle,
Well bred, I think, of equal port,
One for the gown, one for the court:
They parted, (did they so an't please you)
Yes, that they did (dear Sir) to ease you;
One went to Holland, where they huff folk,
T' other to vent his wares in Suffolk.
(That Mice have travell'd in old times,
Horace and Prior tell in rhymes,
Those two great wonders of their ages,
Superior far to all the sages.)
Many days past, and many a night,
E'er they could gain each other's sight;
At last in weather cold (not sultry)
They met at the Three-Cranes in Poultry.
After much buss, and great grimace,
(Usual you know in such a case)

Much chat arose, what had been done,
What might before next summer's sun;
Much said of France, of Suffolk's goodness,
The gentry's loyalty, mobbs rudeness,
That ended; o'er a charming bottle,
They enter'd on this tittle tattle.

Quoth Suffolk, by preheminence
In years, tho' (God knows) not in sense;
All's gone dear brother, only we
Remain to raise posterity;
Marry you brother; I'll go down,
Sell nouns and verbs, and lie alone.
May you ne'er meet with feuds or babble,
May olive-branches crown your table,
Somewhat I'll save, and for this end,
To prove a brother, and a friend.
What I propose is just, I swear it,
Or may I perish by this claret.
The dice are thrown, chuse this or that,
('Tis all alike to honest Matt)
I'll take then the contrary part,
And propagate with all my heart.
After some thought, some Portugueze,
Some wine, the younger thus replies.

Fair are your words, as fair your carr'age,
Let me be free, drudge you in marr'age,
Get me a boy call'd Adrian,
Trust me, I'll do for't what I can.
Home went well pleas'd the Suffolk tony,
Heart-free from care, as purse from money,
Resolving full to please his taudy,
He got a spouse, and jerk'd her body;
At last when teeming time was come,
Out came her burthen from her womb,
It prov'd a lusty squalling boy,
(Doubtless the dad's and mammy's joy.)
In short, to make things square and even,
Adrian he nam'd was by Dick, Stephen.

100

Matt's debt thus paid, he now enlarges,
And sends you in a bill of charges,
A cradle (brother) and a basket,
(Granted as soon as e'er I ask'd it)
A coat not of the smallest scantling,
Frocks, stockings, shoes, to grace the bantling,
These too were sent, (or I'm no drubber)
Nay add to these the fine gum-rubber;
Yet these wo'nt do, send t' other coat,
For (faith) the first e'nt worth a groat,
Dismally shrunk, as herrings shotten,
Suppos'd originally rotten.
Pray let the next be each way longer,
Of stuff more durable, and stronger;
Send it next week, if you are able,
By this time, Sir, you know the fable;
From this, and letters of the same make,
You'll find what 'tis to have a name-sake.

Cold and hard times, Sir, here, (believe it)
I've lost my curate too, and grieve it,
At Easter, for what I can see,
(A time of ease and vacancy)
If things but alter, and not undone,
I'll kiss your hands, and visit London;
Molly sends greeting, so do I Sir,
Send a good coat, that's all, good b'ye Sir.

Your's entirely, MATTHEW.

Wednesday Night, 10 o'Clock, Feb. 16, 1708/9.

University of Virginia Library

THE MICE

A TALE.

TO Mr ADRIAN DRIFT, in the Year 1708–9.