Poems by Matthew Prior

All Poems Original Poems Translations

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Alma; or, The Progress of the Mind In Three Cantos - Canto III

Richard, who now was half asleep,

Roused, nor would longer silence keep;

And sense like this, in vocal breath,

Broke from his twofold hedge of teeth.

Now if this phrase too harsh be thought,

Pope, tell the world 'tis not my fault.

Old Homer taught us thus to speak;

If 'tis not sense, at least 'tis Greek.

by Matthew Prior

An Ode - Presented To The King, On His Majesty's Arrival In Holland, After The Queen's Death

At Mary's tomb (sad sacred place!)

The Virtues shall their vigils keep,

And every Muse and every Grace

In solemn state shall ever weep.

The future pious mournful fair,

Oft as the rolling years return,

With fragrant wreaths and flowering hair

Shall visit her distinguish'd urn.

by Matthew Prior

Alma; or, The Progress of the Mind In Three Cantos - Canto II

But shall we take the Muse abroad,

To drop her idly on the road,

And leave our subject in the middle,

As Butler did his Bear and Fiddle?

Yet he, consummate master, knew

When to recede and where pursue:

His noble negligence teach

What others' toils despair to reach.

by Matthew Prior

An English Ballad, On The Taking Of Namur, By The King Of Great Britain

Dulce est desipere in loco.

Some Folks are drunk, yet do not know it:

So might not Bacchus give You Law?

Was it a Muse, O lofty Poet,

Or Virgin of St. Cyr, You saw?

Why all this Fury? What's the Matter,

That Oaks must come from Thrace to dance?

Must stupid Stocks be taught to flatter?

by Matthew Prior

A Letter To Lady Margaret Cavendish Holles-Harley, When A Child

My noble, lovely, little Peggy,

Let this my First Epistle beg ye,

At dawn of morn, and close of even,

To lift your heart and hands to Heaven.

In double duty say your prayer:

Our Father first, then Notre Pere.

And, dearest child, along the day,

In every thing you do and say,

by Matthew Prior

A Reasonable Affliction

On his death-bed poor Lubin lies:

His spouse is in despair;

With frequent cries, and mutual sighs,

They both express their care.

"A different cause," says Parson Sly,

"The same effect may give:

Poor Lubin fears that he may die;

His wife, that he may live."

by Matthew Prior

An Ode - In Imitation of Horace, Book III Ode II

How long, deluded Albion, wilt thou lie

In the lethargic sleep, the sad repose

By which thy close thy constant enemy

Has softly lull'd thee to thy woes?

Or wake, degenerate isle, or cease to own

What thy old kings in Gallic camps have done,

The spoils they brought thee back, the crowns they won,

William (so Fate requires) again is arm'd,

by Matthew Prior

A Sailor's Wife

Quoth Richard in jest looking wistly at Nelly,

Methinks child you seem something round in the belly.

Nell answer'd him snappishly, how can that be,

When my husband has been more than two years at sea?

Thy husband! quoth Dick, why that matter was carried

Most secretly, Nell; I ne'er thought thou wert married.

by Matthew Prior

To A Lady

Spare, gen'rous victor, spare the slave,

Who did unequal war pursue;

That more than triumph he might have,

In being overcome by you.

In the dispute whate'er I said,

My heart was by my tongue belied;

And in my looks you might have read

How much I argued on your side.

by Matthew Prior

A Song If Wine And Music Have The Power

If wine and music have the power

To ease the sickness of the soul,

Let Phoebis every string explore,

And Bacchus fill the sprightly bowl:

Let them their friendly aid employ

To make my Cloe's absense light,

And seek for pleasure to destroy

The sorrows of this live-long night.

by Matthew Prior

To Chloe Jealous

Dear Chloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face;

Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd:

Prythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says)

Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.

How canst thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy

The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping?

Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy:

More ord'nary eyes may serve people for weeping.

by Matthew Prior

Jinny The Just

Releas'd from the noise of the butcher and baker

Who, my old friends be thanked, did seldom forsake her,

And from the soft duns of my landlord the Quaker,

From chiding the footmen and watching the lasses,

From Nell that burn'd milk, and Tom that broke glasses

(Sad mischiefs thro' which a good housekeeper passes!)

From some real care but more fancied vexation,

From a life parti-colour'd half reason half passion,

by Matthew Prior