University of Virginia Library

Come, my pretty little Muse,
Your assistence I must use,
And you must assist me too
Better than you use to doe,
Or the Subject we disgrace
Has oblig'd us many ways.
Pretty Matty is our Theme,
Of all others the supreme;
Should we studie for't a year,
Could we chuse a prettier?
Little Mat, whose pretty play
Does divert us ev'ry day,
Whose Caresses are so kind,
Sweet, and free, and undesign'd,
Meekness is not more disarming,
Youth and modesty more charming;
Nor from any ill intent
Nuns or Doves more innocent:
And for Beauty, Nature too
Here would shew what she could doe;
Finer Creature ne'er was seen,
Half so pretty, half so clean.
Eyes as round and black as Sloe,
Teeth as white as morning Snow;
Breath as sweet as blowing Roses,
When the Morn their leaves discloses,
Or, what sweeter you'll allow,
Breath of Vestals when they vow,
Or, that yet doth sweeter prove,
Sighs of Maids who die for Love.
Next his Feet my praise commands,
Which methinks we should call hands.
For so finely they are shap'd,
And for any use so apt,
Nothing can so dext'rous be,
Nor fine handed near as he.
These, without though black as Jet,
Within are soft and supple yet
As Virgins Palm, where Man's deceit
Seal of promise never set.
Back and Belly soft as Dawn,
Sleeps which peace of Conscience crown,
Or the whispers Love reveal,
Or the kisses Lovers steal:
And of such a rich perfume,
As, to say I dare presume,
Will out-ravish and out-wear
That of th' fulsome Milliner.
Tail so bushy and so long,
(Which t'omit would doe him wrong)
As the proudest she of all
Proudly would be fann'd withall.

Having given thus the shape
Of this pretty little Ape,
To his Vertues next I come,
Which amount to such a summe,
As not only well may pass
Both my Poetry and Dress
To set forth as I should do't,
But Arithmetick to boot.

Valour is the ground of all
That we Mortals Vertues call;
And the little Cavalier
That I do present you here,
Has of that so great a share,
He might lead the World to war.
What the Beasts of greater size
Tremble at he does despise,
And is so compos'd of heart,
Drums nor Guns can make him start:
Noises which make others quake,
Serve his Courage to awake.
Libyan Lyons make their Feasts
Of subdu'd Plebean Beasts,
And Hyrcanian Tigers prey
Still on Creatures less than they,
Or less arm'd; the Russian Bears
Of tamer Beasts make massacres.
Irish Wolves devour the Dams,
English Foxes prey on Lambs.
These are all effects of course,
Not of Valour, but of Force;
But my Matty does not want
Heart t'attack an Elephant.
Yet his Nature is so sweet,
Mice may nibble at his feet,
And may pass as if unseen,
If they spare his Megazine.
Constancy, a Vertue then
In this Age scarce known to men,
Or to Womankind at least,
In this pretty little Beast
To the World mght be restor'd,
And my Matty be ador'd.
Chaste he is as Turtle Doves,
That abhor adult'rate Loves;
True to Friendship, and to Love,
Nothing can his Vertue move,
But his Faith in either giv'n,
Seems as if 'twere seal'd in Heaven.
Of all Brutes to him alone
Justice is, and Favour known.
Now is Matty's excellence
Mearly circumscrib'd by sense,
He for judgment what to doe
Knows both good and evil too,
But is with such vertue bless'd,
That he chuses still the best,
And wants nothing of a Wit
But a Tongue to utter it:
Yet with that we may dispense,
For his Signs are Eloquence.
Then for Fashion, and for Meine,
Matty's fit to court a Queen;
All his motions gracefull are,
And all Courts outshine as far
As our Courtiers peakish Clowns,
Or those peaknils Northern Loons,
Which should Ladies see, they sure
Other Beasts would ne'er endure;
Then no more they would make suit
For an ugly pissing-coat
Rammish Cat, nor make a pet
Of a bawdy Mamoset.
Nay, the Squerrel, though it is
Pretty'st Creature next to this,
Would henceforward be discarded,
And in Woods live unregarded.
Here sweet Beauty is a Creature
Purposely ordain'd by Nature,
Both for cleanness and for shape
Worthy a Fair Ladies lap;
Nor her Bosom would disgrace,
Nor a more beloved place.

Live long, my pretty little Boy,
Thy Master's Darling, Ladies Joy,
And when Fate will no more forbear
To lay his hands on him and her,
E'en then let Fate my Matty spare,
And when thou dy'st then turn a Star.