Had met me strolling in the dark;
The next a woodcock and an owl,
Quick-sighted, grave, and sober fowl,
Would on their corporal oath allege,
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. Could 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 superfluous sorrow!
Another, full as wise as he,
Adds; that “ a married 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 hop'd 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 had 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 Eolus'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 prayers.
In short, she died. Why then she's dead,
Quoth I, and once again I'll wed.
Would heaven, this mourning year were 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 penthouse near the town;
In brewers' stables peck thy grain,
Then wash it down with puddled rain;
And hear thy dirty offspring 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 given,
Those vilest creatures under Heaven.
To cities and to courts repair,
Flattery and falsehood flourish there;
There all thy wretched arts employ,
Where riches triumph over joy;
Where passion does with interest barter,
And Hymen holds by Mammon's charter;
Where truth by point of law is parried,
And knaves and prudes are six times married.
WRITTEN LONG AFTER THE TALE.
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, though deplore his fate;
* Lady Margaret Cavendish Harley.
Seem young when old in thy dear husband's arms,
For constant virtue has immortal charms.
And, when I lie low sepulchred in earth,
And the glad year returns thy day of birth,
Vouchsafe to say, "Ere I could write or spell,
The bard, who from my cradle wish'd me well,
Told me I should the prating sparrow blame,
And bad me imitate the turtle's flame."
A BALLAD,* TO THE TUNE OF KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY, 1715.
I SING not old Jason, who travell'd through Greece,
To kiss the fair maids, and possess the rich Fleece;
Nor sing I Æneas, who, led by his mother,
Got rid of one wife, and went far for another.
Derry down, down, hey derry down.
* Down-Hall is in the county of Essex. It is three miles south-east from Hatfield Broad Oak Church, most beautifully seated on a rising ground, above a stream which runs through Hatfield town, having a fine prospect over the adjacent country. It was purchased for Mr. Prior by his generous friend Lord Harley, and after his death, that nobleman made many great improvements in it of vistoes, plantations, &c. and resided at it himself many years of his life. It now is, or was very lately, in the occupation of William Selwyn, Esq.
Nor him who through Asia and Europe did roam,
Ulysses by name, who ne'er cried to go home,
But rather desir'd to see cities and men,
Than return to his farms, and converse with old Pen.
Hang Homer and Virgil ! their meaning to seek, A man must have pok'd into Latin and Greek; Those who love their own tongue, we have reason to hope,
Have read them translated by Dryden and Pope.
But I sing of exploits that have lately been done By two British heroes, called Matthew and John :* And how they rid friendly from fine London town, Fair Essex to see, and a place they call Down.
Now ere they went out you may rightly suppose How much they discours'd both in prudence and [certed,
prose; For, before this great journey was thoroughly conFull often they met, and as often they parted.
And thus Matthew said, Look you here, my friend
I fairly have travell'd years thirty and one ; [John,
And, though I still carried my sovereign's warrants,
I only have gone upon other folks' errands.
And now in this journey of life I would have
A place where to bait, 'twixt the court and the grave:
* Mr. Prior, and Mr. John Morley, of Halstead.
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